Yes, I know what day it is, but no, I don't want to write about it. I was there - not in Dealy Plaza, but in 1963, staying home from school with the sniffles and sitting up on my parents' bed watching TV when the first bulletin broke in on a soap opera - and the dark story slowly unwound itself across the screen all that long November afternoon, brilliant with southern sunshine. I remember it all quite clearly, the four days of sadness, and though I did later read several books and many articles about it all, now the trials and tribulations of my own life across six decades have left me too familiar with sorrow to want to borrow any. It was a tragedy, not a piece of entertainment to be endlessly revisited.
RIP JFK. If the gaping crowds will ever let you.
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