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It has taken decades to realize how much a series of bullets — fired half a century ago by a lone gunman, or maybe not — has impacted the life of one preschooler.
I was a 5-year-old in hand-me-down dungarees. The knees, judging by most of the pictures from the era, were worn bare.
I don’t remember ever seeing my mother cry before that day; perhaps that’s why my memory of President John F. Kennedy’s murder is so vivid.
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