When I was 20 years old, I stood behind the etched fence above the grassy knoll and watched a ghost car float toward me. My mind was an electrical storm. This was the place.
I could see Kennedy, throat covered in balled fists, mouth open like a sunning crocodile, eyes confused and betrayed. I could feel the flutter of the fender flags in my chest. Jackie leaning over in maternal concern just before everything went back and to the left.
Back and to the left. Back and to the left. A mantra burned in my brain from Hollywood repetition.
It was the first time I’d been to Dealey Plaza. I didn’t go empty-headed, either. I’d armed myself with the distrust, doubt and truth-telling of a dozen conspiracy books.
My father was my partner in assassination lore. We bonded over rapt discussions of “did you hear about the guy who said he saw…” We read books and dug deep. Communion through intrigue. It’s a fond memory. My dad and I watching those TV specials and stepping on the tails of each other’s sentences through that autumn.
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