President John F. Kennedy’s voice is in my kitchen, which isn’t normal for my kitchen—John F. Kennedy’s been dead since 1963. Outside, kids bike along the street, a wasp hovers close to the window, the source of Kennedy’s voice is nowhere to be found.
It’s not a familiar speech. It’s not the one where he was a jelly donut or the one about doing what your country can’t do for you. His voice stirs something inside and mushes it around like cake mix.
That day in particular always seems hot in the footage. Mythically hot. I know it was Texas, but, still, I wouldn’t know how to keep my brains from falling out on a cool day, never mind a day like that.