I was prompted with looking into the eyes of a historical figure that was considered less prominent, perhaps even ’on the sidelines’ for lack of a better title. I rather quickly grew attached to Jacqueline Lee Kennedy, former first lady of the United States and wife of my personal favorite president in US history, John Fitzgerald “Jack” Kennedy. I did not know Jackie personally, of course, and cannot say for certain what was going through her head on the days I am about to document artistically. However, I can assure one that while one could see this as artistic or even romanticized at points, I believe the events and emotion presented were genuine and accurate to the extent I could discover and create.
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Many remember me for wearing the bright pink chiffon suit on the day it happened. A lot of people seem to forget that by the end of the ordeal, the pink chiffon was stained red. You can bet I never wanted to look at that particular ensemble again. It carried with it the remains of the last thing I had. The image of my husband’s life being cut short before my eyes. The feel of the car’s leather as I was restrained and pulled back from the shattered puzzle pieces that made my husband, Jack, the president.

A lot of people agreed that Jack and I were like an iceberg. A lot of our relationship was submerged, and yet there was a whole other half exposed. We liked things that way. Jack was...macho in public. That’s the best way to put it. He was like a hunting dog. Out in the open, he’s there for your service. He looks tough and runs after the quail you shoot down and brought it back, but only did so because it was his job. Take your hunting dog home, though, and he’ll curl up by the fireplace and give you kisses. Jack was a hunting dog not just for me, but for our country.

Just a couple months before the trip to Texas, I gained a son. And two days after that, I lost him. Patrick hardly had a chance at life before the lord above decided he needed him back for whatever reason. You would think somebody that had already experience a miscarriage would just go through the motions of grief. But it felt more like a wound that had already been stitched up was torn right back open. Jack wasn’t the same afterward. I think losing another child hammered it into him that every day could easily be his last. And that’s what was almost eerie about Jack. It was as if he knew he was going to die. He began showing a good deal more public displays of affection. He didn’t want to wait to return inside to kiss me just to keep the Press out of it. Not anymore. We could both be dead by then. The iceberg had been lifted out of the water just a bit more by the force of a major loss.

Jack had a habit of visiting confessionals and releasing his sins for a pastor behind shut doors. It was as if he didn’t want a single day of his human desires on his shoulders if he was to, by some random force, be struck dead and had to face God. For someone so commonly remembered for the way he died, Jack, I believe, had a better understanding of life and death than anyone I had ever met.

For November in Dallas, the skies were clear. I was so happy that it was such a nice day, but looking back, I wish it wasn’t. I wish some rainstorm would’ve prompted Jack to request the top to cover the car. I wish a pre-holiday snowstorm would’ve coated the roads in ice, and cancelled the event for fear of the car skidding off the road and killing a dozen people. But no. Not a cloud in the sky, perfect to wave to the people of Texas.
I waved my hand at the people, who were cheering in response. But, I heard a noise. Oh, someone’s motorcycle must be acting up. Maybe if I had thought otherwise, I would’ve had time to do something. But my prediction was incorrect, and it wasn’t corrected until I heard Governor Connally let out a scream of horror. A scream far too severe to act as a reaction to a malfunctioning motorcycle.

A gunshot doesn’t sound like you think it may. It more accurately resembled fireworks. But fireworks are beautiful and colorful. The exact opposite sensation coursed through my body as I watched Jack’s skull just burst as if by magic. It was like a bizarre nightmare. You think you know every inch of someone after you marry them, until you see a piece of their skull for the first time.

The only thing worse than losing someone, is knowing you could have done something to stop it. My two babies I lost so early on, I didn’t watch them live and then die as a result of a finger to a trigger. Both were out of my control. If I had just recognized how the sound of a gun soon enough, maybe I could’ve tackled Jack down and taken the bullet in my back if not save both of us. Maybe I could’ve acted quickly enough to get the car’s roof up and the driver to bolt us off to someplace safe. But I didn’t even turn around until the second bullet fired and robbed me of the best thing in my life.

All I could do is cry. I cried and wailed as I reached for my husband. When something this distressing occurs, time moves so slow. They say the human head still responds for about five seconds after it’s separated from it’s body. And in the slowed down pace all of this was occurring in, five seconds could be equal to an hour I could use to save my husband. But then I felt Hill grab me and pull me into the backseat. I probably should have thanked him. At the time I just wanted what I could grab of Jack in hopes we could just...put him back together or something. But those are words of a grieving woman. A bargaining widow that lost too much already.

At the hospital, they told me to sit while they took Jack inside a trauma room. No way in hell. God, you can take away my sons, and you can take away my husband, but I’ll be damned if you dare try and deprive me of my last moments with him. I was on my feet almost as if by robotic gears. The door just ahead of me. This nurse tried to keep me out. I don’t know who on God’s Green Earth thought it would be okay to block the grieving First Lady from seeing the dying president, but I wouldn’t take it sitting down. My final memory with Jack will not be of this head bleeding out onto some car’s leather.

Now a doctor wants me to take a sedative. He expects me to live with the guilt of being drugged up and relaxed while my husband died. Absolutely not. Could they not see the blood on my clothes? I was directly next to Jack when he was shot. It’s not as if I hadn’t seen anything I couldn’t handle, let alone him dying. I told them,

“I want to be there when he dies.”

And finally, one of the doctors got some sense.

“It’s her right. It’s her prerogative.”

It was odd. I had right and prerogative. And yet, at the same time, I had nothing left.