It was not, certainly, the first assassination I had heard of. Lincoln. McKinley.
But it was the first that had knocked my heart so far down into my stomach that I could never breath clear again for the rest of my life
The campus paper, still warm against my arm, felt useless, as would all newspapers after that, and all dying and disaster after that.
He was my president this assassin had killed, and a nation with him, and all psalms and Saturdays, and laughter died with him in Texas. Tears were the only language we had for those days.
The sun and the song would slowly return to a new normal.