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Bitter Memory

``Look what I have,'' she cried, exhibiting with pride, ``a piece of the Wall.'' I looked at the fragment and thought of the souvenir hunter in each, in all who brought home a matchbook, a program, a spoon, a meteor chip, or pebble from the moon.

Once, in the wagons rolling west, men brought a plant, a vine, a handful of seeds in the hope that though they left their homes forever, they took their landscapes with them to recreate an image of the homeland wherever they might go.

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But here was a remnant of bitter memory: a prison symbol separating brothers, dividing families and parting lovers - halving a land against itself and of no value except for being gone.

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