November 22, 1963

I got on the school bus. Another girl was holding a transistor radio to her ear and crying. When I asked someone what was wrong, he said, “Somebody shot the president.”

I was so young that I couldn’t possibly know the impact. But I remember the TV being on for days and watching the funeral. I remember going into the bathroom and crying into my towel where it hung on the rack and wondering, “What’s going to happen to us?”

Each time I see a child grapple with horrific news and watch innocence die in their eyes, I remember again.

It was a subdued Christmas that year.

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