By David Everly
He was dead, no doubt about that.
I’d been mailing a letter for my mom, when I heard the shot. I ran across the parking lot and up the grassy slope.
The knoll was high enough to see over the crowd standing around Dealey Plaza. To my right, two men were running away. Going for help, I guess. Everyone else was rushing towards the man in the car. He was bloody and limp.
A pair of guards threw his wife into another car before it roared away: her pretty pink suit spattered with bright red spots.
He was Mom’s favorite president.
An interesting story on the JFK assassination from a youngster’s standpoint.