Walking down Memphis’ Main Street last week, I was admiring new restaurants, bars and trolley cars. Then I gazed to my right and unexpectedly saw the sign and the motel – feeling an immediate kick to my gut.
I’d seen the photo countless times since April 1968, but I wasn’t prepared for the scene to appear so quickly nor to have such an immediate emotional impact. I was 11, watching television with my dad when the first report of Martin Luther King’s assassination interrupted our evening.
I watched the news all that night, tears streaming. Fifty years later, they unexpectedly returned.