
President Kennedy's caske
t, with Black Jack following (pubic domain, via Wikipedia)
At 12:30 pm (Texas time) on November 22, 1963, shots rang out, a President died, and and entire nation just stopped. The country felt like it was in a strange sort of paralysis. Schools dismissed, businesses paused or closed, and people wept in public.
Three days later every soul who wasn't urgently needed elsewhere was in front of a television set, watching the state funeral. I watched along with everyone else.
It was an unbelievably sad event, that funeral. For me, perhaps the most gut wrenching part was seeing the President's casket on a caisson, with a horse following along behind. The horse, black and riderless, with empty boots in the stirrups, turned backwards, symbolic of a fallen leader, tore at my guts.
It was a symbolism so glaringly obvious that no explanation was necessary. It was a sight so gut-wrenching and poignant that the only possible reaction was tears. Somehow, there was a sense that Black Jack, the horse,
represented something even more than a fallen leader.
I cried. My parents cried. A nation cried. The words may not have been said yet, but deep inside we all knew we were living the in the death of an era. Our Camelot had been shattered.
We didn't know what would come next, but we sure knew a light had been extinguished.
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