Seeing footage of CBS newsman Walter Cronkite, his voice catching as he announces Preisdent John F. Kennedy's death, sends a chill through Diane Scharper, a poet and author who teaches writing at Towson University.
"Even now, it brings tears to your eyes," said Scharper, who was a student at the College of Notre Dame when Kennedy was shot in November 1963.
She and her advisor, Sister Kathleen Marie Engers, had been in a workroom just off a small theater on campus when they learned the news.
Scharper remembers going to the campus library, where the person who checked out books told her Kennedy had died.
"I was sure she was wrong, and he would be OK," Scharper said. Learning she was the one who was wrong turned the normally garrulous Scharper inward. She barely talked to anyone and simply parked herself in front of the television to "grieve and mourn."
When she broke her self-imposed silence, it was through a poem that became part of her senior thesis:
November 22, 1963
For John Fitzgerald Kennedy (1917-1963)
We have no words unless you call
The wind's wail a word unless you
Hear a word as the wind whips past
The bushes unless the hiss of dry
Leaves has a word. Is
There a word for love's bloom
Being murdered when it blooms? Is
There a word to say the swish of
The bullet entering, to mouth
The blood rushing? Life, we said, is
Followed by sorrow. But then we were
Not saying so much as crying. In the
End, we became our cry, and he was a black
Veil wafting downward.