The images we ingest never cease to shape us.
Just 51 years ago, the head of a profoundly gifted young man was blown apart.
A few months earlier he’d given a speech that promised a new dawn.
He reached out to our enemies. He talked of going to the moon, of technological breakthrough and human promise. And he stopped the radioactive madness of atmospheric Bomb testing, a reason many of us are alive today.
It’s easy to idealize John Kennedy.
We still debate what he might have done in Vietnam.
But since the war did escalate, and we know the horrible costs to us all, then the possibility that he might have gotten us out gnaws at our soul.
So does not being sure about who actually killed him.
And then there’s the horror of the moment itself. A fellow human, blown apart before our eyes.
It hurts to think about it. To write about it. How can sorrow not reign in our hearts over this terrible human image that so deeply defines us?