Bradley took the plastic Ziploc bag out of his pocket. The small pieces of concrete, some of them colored from the spray paint, chalk, or whatever was used as a medium of protest, had, he noticed, turned to dust, from so much handling and wear. He had fingered it, massaged it, pinched it, and crushed it for fourteen years. He remembered when he purchased the little bag in Berlin, how it reminded him of the little bags of "moon dust" you could buy in Tennessee after July 1968, with the fine print, "collected on Moon, Kentucky." Both filled with such promise and hope, though mere souvenirs, tainted, in a way. After all, he bought the dust; he did not walk on the moon, travel to Moon, Kentucky, help knock the Berlin wall down, escape from the burning, collapsing towers, or even help build a power plant to electrify a country. Or did he? He unzipped the bag and let the wind carry the dust into the crater called Ground Zero.
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