..a handless Bobby Kennedy behind bars squeezed between one of the guarding wolves of Rumulus and Remus and Michelangelo´s ever mourning Pietá. I found him in the marble town Pietrasanta, in Tuscany a few years back. In spite of being surrounded by famous philosophers and other historic gigants made from the white Carrarra marble, this sight of him was a bit chocking in a strange way. Poor Bobby. Where will you end up? In a rich Roman´s garden? Will they eventually add your hands?
I saw Bobby four days before he was shot. Suntanned, waving with both hands and grinning from the back of an open campaign van in Oakland, California. Healthy and alive. A lot of hopes for the future was pinned to Bobby in this era of the Vietnam war.
I remember he was so close I could have reached out an arm and touched him.
I remember he was so close I could have reached out an arm and touched him.
And then, four days later:
