Winter, 2001.


“Where were you the day that JFK died?”

“In a tenth grade classroom, passing a note to a girl,”

my father replied.

It was winter, 2001.

It was cold, we were stuck inside

with nothing to do but sit in the kitchen

and talk about what it was like

the day that JFK died.


“The loudspeaker crackled as the principal spoke,

and hummed like a funeral choir.

And the crackle was silent.

And the silence was endless.


The teacher told us to close up our books

and put away all our supplies,

and everyone cried.

Oh, I’ll never forget the day that JFK died.”