5 June 1989, Gate of Heavenly Peace He’d just been shopping. Nestled inside the bags were jars, tins, vegetables, maybe even a whole chicken. The road stretched empty except for the tanks. His friends would be at his door soon. He needed an hour for the bird to simmer into tenderness. Ten minutes to peel and dice the carrots, onions and ginger. Half an hour to boil the rice. But the tanks slowly advanced on swiss roll wheels. His bags were heavy. Their white handles cut. His hands grew red and riven. But he stood there, a sculpture, grown into the land. The first tank came so close its hulk blocked out the sun even as the man lifted his chin and searched out the tank’s eye.
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