Even with 50 years heaped upon it,
even though other memories,
have since been known,
this one burns eternal:
The principal’s voice over the PA,
his incomprehensible news
raining down on our third grade world.
The classroom cut-up, trying to make a joke,
as we tried to make sense of it all,
our teacher frowning through her tears.
The early dismissal,
walking the streets of Fulton,
cars dragging with the weight of the news.
Crossing the bridge of our innocence,
the once lively river below,
now just chilling water.
The stream of words from our TV,
Cronkite, Brinkley—all mankind—
remembering one man, beloved by all.