Watershed

Sixty-one years ago, to the day. I was nine, in fourth grade. Mr. Braley’s room.

Mrs. Kreuger was crying. She never cried. She made other people cry, most often us kids. Mrs. Shmaltz came across the hall to point out the flag that had already been lowered to half-mast.

We went home a bit early—or did we make it to the end of the day? I can’t remember anymore. I just remember the quietness as we waited for the bus in the multi-purpose room.

I remember being glued to the square box that passed for a TV. All weekend. I saw Oswald get shot, in real time.

Turns out that, as a nation, the losses were only beginning to mount. And we would never be the same, whatever that means.