Forty years gone

And still, after all we've learned since that we didn't know at the time, Jack Kennedy (everyone's forgotten we used to call him Jack) retains his sainthood, remains the man who would have Made Everything Better if They hadn't taken him out.

Whoever They were. Or are. Or whatever.

I'm not here to throw mud at the man. He was a man, flawed but decent enough, lucky but savvy enough to take advantage of it. Unrealized potential is always a tragedy: The nature of his passing made it epic, mythic.

Nor am I arrogant enough to pick a theory. Vast numbers of people have decided that the Warren Commission's conclusion doesn't hang together. Reuters apparently agrees: Their story is less about the actual assassination than dueling conspiracies.

Dallas does not hold an official event to mark the day that, the official history says, Lee Harvey Oswald fired three shots from the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository with a rifle he purchased for less than $20, gunning down Kennedy during a trip to Texas he was reluctant to take.

(Emphasis mine.) But as awkward as the Warren conclusion is, it still beats the alternatives.

I'm just thinking that after forty years, if we still don't know, then we're never going to know. There's almost certain to be another orgy of publicity on the fiftieth anniversary. Maybe then it'll be time to Let it Go.