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Somewhere in the sand

between the Sea and Sinai

there is a pile of rocks, a memorial.

Every year I stumble against it

trip over it

and the sharp stones hit a nerve.

I’ve only lately finished the matzah

only lately begun picking the soft white manna

from the grocery shelves again

enjoying my freedom

and then

wham!

I trip over those damned rocks again.

They recall all those souls, ground to gravel

Reduced to ash.

I cannot bear to think of them

And I cannot bear to forget them, either.

So I sit on the sand

aching

re-stacking the stones.

Image by Nick Brooks, some rights reserved

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