Luci Baines Johnson and I were both 
in Austin that fateful day in August,
1966. Someone, someplace had to do
it. Charles Whitman ripped those scales
off the wide-eyed naivety of Americans
on that steamy noon.

He had such an odd collection 
of paraphernalia with him; canned
peaches, deodorant, an alarm clock, 
binoculars, a machete and sweet rolls.
His cache also included a Remington 700,
shotgun, and an M1 rifle. He died on August 1, 
1966 after a 90-minute rampage.

Peaches, sweet rolls, and weaponry are 
odd bedfellows. Deodorant seems to summon
toothpaste and toothbrush. Personal hygiene 
must require a machete if awakened by an 
alarm clock and multiple guns. Nobody knows
where the wild goose goes, or how Whitman’s 
mind worked that horrific summer day. In that
era, this was an unthinkable event.

This ex-Marine, blonde, handsome, architecture 
student at the University of Texas pioneered mass 
murder with a deadly sniper’s skill. I ponder how 
this madness will end; with a violent whimper or
a hushed bang.
                        

This morning early I finished my coffee, sat 
outside to finish an article about an obscure 
Texas billionaire who favors secession, admired
new clumps of yellow daffodils that emerged 
behind the fence-line, realized today was 
February 27th.

A routine Tuesday with nothing on my to-do
list that is urgent. Fifty-nine years ago, this date
was tightly scheduled and significant,
even-life changing.

My wedding day was in 1965 to a boy, 21
(not yet a man) who promised me a marigold moon,
spun-sugar stars, and whisked me away to dwell 
in infinite possibilities.

Almost never do I notice February 27, never do
I speak of that first marriage. It would seem disloyal
to my spouse of forty-five years. He promised no 
extravagant dreams, but has loved me well. 
That first man, father of my child, died in 2022.

My heart is a homing pigeon. On the other side, 
all dues are paid, all bets are off, and all obligations 
fulfilled or forgotten. In that place and time, my heart
will fly home where it belongs among those candy stars.

I am still here. It’s just a hum-drum, Tuesday,
my coffee is cold, my Yorkie gives me that side-eye 
meaning, “outside,” and I need to get on with my day.