“The president has been shot.” Five little words that rocked my world. I remember thinking that there was some mistake. It was the president of a different country. It was the president of some organization or company. It couldn’t be the President of the United States! It wasn’t possible, was it? There was no way that John Fitzgerald Kennedy, Jack, my life-long best friend, was dead. The first time I heard the news, I was at work in Houston. I knew he was in Dallas. He had planned on bringing Johnny and Caroline and Jackie to visit. Until he and Jackie were done with business, the kids stayed with their grandparents. We were going to have barbecue when he came. We were going to his favorite smokehouse in the world.

We were at work, the elementary school, when we heard. My kids were at art, so I was in the lounge, making myself a cup of coffee. Our principal came in in a rush. She turned on the radio and the television at the same time. She flipped through all the stations, but didn’t find what she wanted. Then, she turned to the radio and tuned into different stations until she heard the alarms that went off preceding a bulletin. This didn’t happen very often. She turned the TV off and sat down. We began to listen to the bulletin.

“President Kennedy has been shot in a Dallas motorcade. His condition is unknown. He was rushed to Parkland Hospital in Dallas,” a newspaper-sounding voice announced over the air. I dropped my coffee cup; it shattered as it hit the tile floor. I fell to my knees, speechless. My best friend. Our president. One of the nation’s most-loved men; now he was gone. Dead. I knew that even though they said his “condition was unknown,” it wasn’t good. Probably critical at best. I told the principal I had to go. I grabbed my keys and headed straight for Dallas, as fast as I could.


I quickly found Parkland Hospital. They had blocked off the emergency entrance, so I went to the main entrance. I snuck into the hallway for the emergency ward. The doors were blocked by two guards. I tried to push past them, but they just blocked my path. By now, tears were silently falling from my eyes. I looked up, startled by the doors opening. A priest walked out and my heart dropped.

“Father,” I choked out. “Is he…?” He cut me off with a nod. He confirmed what I knew in my heart.

“I performed the last rites.” All I wanted to do was to hug him one last time, to joke with him. No tears fell now. I was too shocked.

I stood there like a statue until the doors opened again. It was Jackie. As soon as she saw me, her face fell. The mask that America saw, the stoic, beautiful face that never showed any worry or pain, vanished as she fell into my arms. Her pink Chanel suit, which I knew for a fact was a birthday gift from Jack, was spattered with blood. As she pulled out of the hug, I saw that no tearstains crossed her cheeks, no mascara trails.

“He’s one,” she whispered into my ear. My heart broke for her.

“I know,” I told her. “I saw the priest.” She nodded in reply. One of the guards came to her and whispered something inaudible to me in her ear.

“I have to go,” she said, trying to pull herself together. I gave her another hug. I prayed that I was able to keep myself composed as she let out a few sobs, her only breakdown that entire day. She let go of me. I took her hand and squeezed it, giving her a weak smile, and then let her go. She followed the guards; I turned the other way to leave. I couldn’t bear to see the body. I made a quick decision; I was going to fly out to Washington, D.C. to be there for Johnny and Caroline, and for Jackie.

I bought a plane ticket for the first flight to the capital. I stopped at my house to pick up some casual clothes, and the clothes for the funeral. Then I headed for the airport.

When I landed, the news was swarming around the city. There was some news that was new to my ears. They arrested a man for killing Jack. His name was Lee Harvey Oswald. It made me sick. My best friend, arguably one of the best men in the world, was dead, and the man who killed him, one of the worst, was still walking. It just didn’t seem right.

I went to the White House. Even though Jackie wasn’t there, they let me in. I was pretty well known there. I assumed the kids weren’t there until I passed Johnny’s room.

“Auntie Jen!” A little three-year-old screamed with excitement. I crouched, preparing myself for a hug. He ran into my arms. I enveloped him in a bear hug, and picked him up. I carried him to the library and read him his favorite book, a tradition we had. We played and read until he was asleep in my arms.

As I sat in the rocking chair, I thought of Jack. Memories flooded my mind, and I let my tears fall. I remembered how he helped teach me how to ride a bike; how he dared me to kiss him when we were 7. I remembered how he kept the bullies away, even though we were at different schools; how we giggled the entire way through the speeches at our college graduation. I was the bridesmaid at their wedding. I was Johnny and Caroline’s godmother.

Jack was there for me through everything, and I was there for him. But now he was gone, and there would never be another new memory with him.