On this night noir, the grapefruit moon cuts a chiaroscuro effect. His low-key, back light gives a shimmer to the vapors schoonering across his Swiss cheese face. With my hair flying around my head and lifting against my arms, I press the button.
John F. Kennedy's voice, echoing off the concrete dam, fills the void of nearly 50 years. Fills my ears with the recording of his dedication speech. He was here. Here--dedicating Whiskeytown Dam--less than two months before his assassination in 1963.
It feels like he never left. Like a ghostly part of him remains in the peace of this post-card-worthy valley. A part that never went to Dallas. A part that is still married to Jackie. A part that comforts his son, John Jr., as he drowns in the ocean a few miles off the island of Martha's Vineyard. A part that visits his grandchildren born of Caroline.
I jump as I feel his hand lightly brush mine. Is it my imagination? The logical part of my mind tells me it is but all of my other senses, including my eyes, tell me that he is right here in front of me speaking.
