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My mother recounted the events of a particular day so often that I feel as though I can remember them. She said that she sat motionless in front of the small black and white television set holding me in her arms and cuddling my sister very close to her. There was no other sound besides Walter Cronkite’s voice and an expression of complete disbelief deeply etched her face. Mother said that even though I was only 2 years old, it seems that I sensed it was a time to remain silent. She went on to say that she didn’t even realize that tears were streaming from her eyes. For the rest of that day, she said that our television, along with everyone else’s in the nation, remained on, offering blurry, gray images with constant commentary detailing the assassination of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy in Dallas, Texas. It was November 22, 1963 — a day that would forever be frozen in time.
I was far too young to grasp what happened on that ill-fated day. But as I grew up, it became perfectly clear to me. I still remember Mother’s eyes welling up with tears when she recalled the details of that sad, unbelievable day back in the early sixties.