there is violence at flash points south, a time of marches and indignation, of martyrdom and mayhem, a young man tearfully eulogizing: "i am tired of funerals, i don't want no more funerals..." and there is a war somewhere faraway mushrooming on a half-buried map
a friday in november. a motorcade proceeds under an endless texas sky, then gunshots are fired - there's a fleeting glimpse of death... shock...distress... time leaps and lapses, reality struggles while the brain chews fiction, unwilling to process, unable to comprehend
the widow's clothes change from blood-stained pink to somber black
she radiates dignity, strength, character... gliding into history with her veiled grief, her purposeful stride