Sometimes what we remember from our childhood is confused with the stories other people tell us. A micro narration in a minute or so.

TRANSCRIPT

I remember exactly the day Kennedy was shot. My mother was wearing a black twin-set of jumpers, it was probably spring, or autumn, and we were watching television, and my mother was crying.

I wasn’t even born the day that Kennedy was shot, but this memory is so vivid in my mind, that I really believe it to be true.

Now I know, it wasn’t Kennedy my mother was crying for, it was my uncle Franco, her younger brother who migrated at a young age into to the mainland, killed in an industrial accident, crushed to death by a piece of machinery.

The two identities, that of Kennedy and of my uncle, they remain forever connected in my memory, and I still can’t think of one, without having to see the other with the eyes of my mind.