The day John F. Kennedy died, Frank was painting his mother’s window. He had just moved back in with her, having left Montreal, having left Patty, having left everything. In his mother’s old age, he’d wanted to keep her company. He also didn’t want to be alone.
It was November and it was cold. He pulled his windbreaker closer to his chest. He had just cropped his hair close to his skull. The colours had gone and so had the ability to see what ailed people. The leading feelings remained but he ignored them with a willful conviction.
Go away.
What replaced them was an empty, angry sensation that spilled through his organs and lived in his stomach.
He put his brush in the white paint. The ballgame was interrupted by the following message.
“John Kennedy has died.”
“Fucking Protestants,” he said. He took the brush and put it against the window frame without missing a single stroke.
In following years, although he was fascinated by conspiracies of his death, he wondered why he was not surprised that the President has been assassinated. Why he never felt surprised about anything, not for a moment. He wondered if even though the leading feelings were hidden, hung in shame, it didn’t mean they that they weren’t somewhere.
Maybe somewhere they were living in full bloom.
Even though he'd never admit it, that was a hopeful thought.
