If it had been raining that Friday and a glass bubble covered the convertible or if Air Force One was delayed by threatening weather. If the school book depository near Dealey Plaza had been so tightly secured no interloper could enter no stairwell led upstairs no window could be opened.
But how far back from the grassy knoll could onlookers hope to see him? As a young man with Addison’s disease? When his PT boat was sunk in the Pacific? If only the motorcade had driven faster past that sixth floor perch. Maybe then the roses on her lap would have been brighter than the blood staining her dress.
(first published in Clerk of the Dead by Main Street Rag Publishing, 2020)