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Reflections on The Wall







It was my fourth visit, and I was surprised by the number of people there.  Dismayed, even.  But what did I expect, coming on a spring Saturday?  Twice I had gone by night, quiet, Lincoln’s stern reflection glowing off black granite.

My mother came this time and she cried.  “He used to be so funny.”  I never imagined she’d find a memory here, like so many others.  Why did it shock me so?

I found my way to the name I met my first time.  12 West, line 52.  “Hi Donald.”

There’s a man making rubbings and I follow him.  He’s so busy.  I keep following and now I steal my chance.  “Will you do one for me?”  I take pictures of the old man’s hands, rubbing pencil over paper, and in my mind, I make up a life to go with the name.

A young boy walks by with his father, and I hear him ask the question.  The father says, “Ah…jeez, well it all started…”

I turn away, with Donald’s name, climb out of the crevice, and step back into the world.


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