My new memory takes place on April 4, 1968 is of a strong black mother, my mother sobbing, alternating between the fetal position and marshaling strength to find her hands and knees on our front lawn.  Vomiting, wrenching in despair, her only words to her four year old son, me.  

"Baby they killed him; they killed him, baby why did they have to kill him?

.  

As she wretched over and over and over, I thought she was dying.  I just sat next to her wanting her to get up; to get better, hour after hour went by for what seemed like forever.  My one year old brother Martin born the previous April also sat next to her in diapers spared the understanding of our mother's pain.    I don't know if she ever "got better" but I do know she never saw our world quite the same.  That day, unremembered and unspoken till today, remains a wound of my psyche that never healed, I never got better.  

A child's mind and the memories held within is a strange place, a breaker box that allows us to live with childhood tragedy.   I have no memory of my father and mother living together even though I was seven years old by the time they finally dissolved their sometimes violence filled marriage.  Instead I remember riding around town with my grandfather, sitting on the armrest of his car, thinking life was perfect.  I remember my grandfather taking me to Santa Anita race track under the guise of "taking the boy to the park".   I remember the excitement of coming back to my grandparent's house knowing my grandmother would have a two sweet potato pies waiting on the kitchen counter.  One pie for everyone else, the other for me her "Son" the only son of the only son, times were different then.   I remember sneaking out of my bed and watching every moment of the lunar landing and the space filled dreams those images evoked.  

I'm all grown up now, almost.

When my first son was born eight-teen years ago my grandmother flew from California to Maryland and stayed with us for a month.  During that month she taught my dear wife the fine arts of child care and how to make the perfect sweet potato pie.   On the day she left there were two pies on the kitchen counter, one for everyone else, one for me her "Son", I was happy.    Today I often drive when logic says I should fly, it remains my perfect time.  I find myself drawn to anything related to space exploration.  I read every story, from the plight of the space program to broken telescopes or pictures from Martian rovers.    I watch space movies with rapt attention no matter how poor the story, no matter how implausible the technology.   My childhood memories were good, too good.  

Last night I had the dark nightmares only a four year old mind can conjure, filled with absolute despair.  I now must fight to push down the bile of abject terror every time Sen. Obama steps into a crowd, speaks from a raised platform or seems exposed.  I woke with fear this morning, is this the day?

I know this is not a place where many of you will understand but I thought I would at least try to explain.  

Edit: Remove name in diary, it was not needed. Also posted at KOS http://www.dailykos.com/story/2008/5/24/105951/138/762/521986