I don't remember the moments before she swept me up in her arms, sobbing, and carried me to the bedroom just off the small living room in that small house in that small town. I was 5.

“Mom, what's wrong?” I remember asking, as she wept, holding me tight on the bed. I could not comprehend her answer, so I asked again and again to no avail. But I felt the enormity of the moment. It is indelible, stained into my mind.

I've been trying to remember if I've seen my mother cry since Nov. 22, 1963. Surely, she has cried many times since. The world is too damned hard not to rip the tears from your face from time to time. Tears require no witness.

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