I remember…
November 22, 1963
In my little house
Playing new wife, army wife,
Ft. Benning, Georgia.

It hit me like that stone of David’s
Struck the Giant in the head.
JFK shot in Dallas.
At 1:30 pm, stately Walter Cronkite
Let the terrible words tumble from his trembling lips:
The President is dead.

He wept, I wept, the nation, or most of it, wept.
The tragedy of it;
Hope slaughtered
Along with the man.
Jackie in her pink blood-stained suit
Is an image I will never dispel.

It became a stain on my calendar.
Every November 22,
I was drawn back to that singular day
My heart hurting
My soul echoing with sadness and regret.

And then,
November 22, 1972…

I am grieving for JFK, my 22nd of November way to be.
The phone pierces my reverie,
A solemn voice speaks:
“She has died.”
Our 5-year-old daughter
Diagnosed when she was one
With an unforgiving disease
Has finally given up the fight.

For 3 ½ years she has lain in that hospital unit
Not knowing us,
Unaware of her surroundings,
Unable to move her own body,
A feeding tube giving her nourishment,
Because her mouth and digestive system
Cannot manage it.

It was as if she sensed the calendar
And decided
Maybe this should be the day.
She stopped breathing
And rested.
November 22.

For all these years
The day reverberates
Like solemn church bells tolling;
The day JFK in an instant was gone,
The date God or fate took Caron.

Somehow, it eases the day to think:
She is in good company.