On the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy

Brian W. Porter
November 22, 1963 is a day anyone alive at the time remembers. I was in fourth grade I think, on the second floor of the school the a artment side classrooms with a view of brownish!yellow leaves ready to fall off the trees. "ven as oor as my memory is, I have a icture of that day. #chool had $ust ended, the bell rung to let the walkers go home. %s I collected my books and homework, I heard a shout through an o en window. &ne of the kids from the big house ne't to the school stood outside and yelled at someone a few classrooms down. ()hat*( I heard faintly. (+he ,resident-s been shot.( What? How could? No. +he only thing to do was to get home, fast. I grabbed my stuff, hurried into the hall, down the fire esca e, and out the back door, not the way we were su osed to go, but I was in a hurry. +he ,resident had been shot. +he man who had saved us from a nuclear war. I could go through the courtyard of the garden a artments ne't to the school and down the street, or down the back through the garages, but that would take too long. I s rinted for the ath through the woods. +his school was built on an old estate. /ehind the school was what used to be the garden that backed onto a woods, and now was overgrown e'ce t for the stone ste s that led to a lower level. I $um ed the ste s and s rinted down hill along the dirt ath to what used to be an estate road. I ran along that road toward the a artments, under the two rows of 0hestnut trees that marked what used to be the driveway, then ast the layground with the swings, ast the a artment where the -bad man- lived, across the courtyard to the a artment where I lived with my mother. I unlocked the door, threw my stuff on the small couch, turned on the nineteen inch ortable black and white +1 that sat on a brass coated stand, and saw a news s ecial on every channel. +he ,resident was not only shot, but dead. %s I watched, they showed a re lay of the motorcade as it drove ast a

ark. I saw the resident wave, then his head $erked back and slum ed forward. I saw his wife ull him over to her and cover him. +he cars all s ed u and out of sight, and then the scene re eated. 2or the ne't few days I watched the news with my mother, the swearing in of the vice resident, the re orts, the arrest of the man who shot the resident, the funeral with the horse drawn carriage and the little boy who saluted, and the man who shot the man who shot the resident. +hen I went on with my life. Now, it-s fifty years later. I-m no longer in school, haven-t been for many years. I can still remember those scenes on the +1, in black and white, of the inside of the school warehouse where 3ee 4arvey &swald waited to shoot, of the rifle he used, of the motorcade, and the hos ital hallway, and inside the lane. I can icture the funeral rocession, and the graveside. +hese are indelibly carved into my brain cells, never to leave, an event that hel ed sha e who I am. 5ay 6ohn 2it7gerald 8ennedy rest in eace. *** Other short stories, essays, and poetry from this author are available at http://www.scribd.com/Brian%20 %20!orter. *** "ovels for #indle at http://www.ama$on.com/%/e/B00& '2()* *** +opyri,ht 20)- Attribution Non-commercial No-derivs .ou may share this wor/ with anyone in any way with the followin, provisions. .ou must share the complete wor/, includin, the title and this notice. .ou may not ma/e any chan,es. .ou may not use this wor/ commercially or accept payment without the written permission of the 0uthor. 0ny and all ri,hts and credit are held by Brian . !orter.

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