It’s early, so early that the only sound you hear is the start of rush-hour traffic. Not even the man in the wheelchair has planted himself at the foot of the memorial where he plays “Amazing Grace” on his harmonica over and over.
Conversations? You hardly hear any, at any hour. Not here. What is there to say? You look at the running shoes left behind, hundreds of them, and the teddy bears, hundreds of them, and you know behind each item is a trail of hurt.
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