“Shortly after noon on November 22, 1963, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated as he rode in a motorcade through Dealey Plaza in downtown Dallas, Texas.” John F. Kennedy Library and Museum
Make a right on Houston from Main. Left on Elm Street. Past that big brick building. You know the one where crowds are gathering outside—waiting anxiously for the Boy King. A charming symbol of this here America.
I stack the heavy boxes of textbooks moving them to the sixth-floor window neatly a hiding place.
The Dallas Morning News. The black border ad is like a death notice. Warning the Boy King. Don’t come. We mean it.
(Did they know something?) This morning the bile was slowly bubbling up nerves pushing it down. Marina fussing about money and promises made.
The 6.5×52mm Carcano Model 91/38 infantry rifle. Wrapped in brown paper. On the floor.
The cheers and boos rise high from below. Washing over my ears. My face darkens my mind runs slowly fear battling courage searching for reasons history over infamy.
The cavalcade of power. Drives forward through lunch hour crowds. Waves and hope. Cheers and jeers.
It will be simple they said not to worry they said over in seconds they said.
12:30 p.m. CST
I rest the rifle against the window frame my hands shaking my eyes squinting wait they said for the first pop they said then shoot miss they said.
Spiraling bullets thrust forward. One. Two. Three.
One misses. Two and three don’t miss.
Exploding blood. People running. Jackie with her cute pink hat and pink Chanel suit. Men in black jumping on black cars. Jetting into history.
I want to run down. Out. But be calm they said act normal they said we will take care of you they said.
America is changed.
I will be changed.
In the twister, that is history. We will never know the future. Or the promises made. Only infamy.
What do I know I’m just the patsy.