We cannot get past it, we Americans. Not a half century later. Maybe not even ever.
The president with the easy grin in whom so much hope was invested. His wife, forever frozen in pink and pillbox hat. The motorcade. The sunny day. The shadowy man in the window with a rifle. Even more shadowy, the man on the nearby “grassy knoll” who perhaps existed, perhaps didn’t. The flickering, silent color film of a leader’s final moments. And the way it is described, even now, by so many Americans: the “loss of innocence” that left us vulnerable to so much of the heartache and tumult that was still to come. If, that is, we were ever truly innocent in the first place.