We all have our memories. I close my eyes and see nights at Union Square in lower Manhattan the week after Sept. 11. Dark, faceless shapes reverently process sidewalks lined with handbills bearing the faces of the dead and missing. In ones and twos, the shadowy figures meditate on poems and prayers, blessings and hopes carefully composed on newsprint that stretches the length of the park.
I see them in the wee hours — walking in the lamplight, holding each other, silently weeping, staring transfixed into the candles, thousands of candles--flickering souls in the darkness. These gentle souls focus my mind far more vividly than the image of burning towers.
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