I was in the second grade when Kennedy was shot
and Mrs. Siert, the epitome of sweet and pert with
bobbed hair and tightly tailored skirt put a hand
to her flushed face when the principal’s voice came
over the intercom. She did not weep but changed
forever so we—just seven-year-olds busily falling
in love—had seven months to watch her become a
woman tinged with grief before launching into the
higher grades to find girls for us, while inside was
the altered feminine, which determines everything:
the duration of passion, the integrity of work…the
choice to march or not—redeem the fallen man or
become him, lay waste to our fragile lives and hers.