November 1963

I stood silently under the archway. Staring at the old black and white. Mom could not stop sobbing. Dad was clinging desperately to that stoic expression, even now refusing to show his softer side. That old brownstone we lived in had been a place of such joy. A playground for our imaginations, when at our whim it could be transformed to the fantasy world of our choice. But now, a plain wooden coffin, followed by an unmounted horse, made its way across the screen. And a little boy much like me, stood like a man and paid homage to the dead soldier who rolled peacefully by. And at that instant I understood that my fantasies would be no more and that I, like that little boy, would never be the same again after seeing what I had seen, on that brisk November day.