I had left the motherland with its royal name.
The land of my childhood had changed and disappeared.
And like my grandfather, a century before, was now an immigrant.
Does it matter I had never left these shores?
In search of the place named “broken land,” Emma Lazarus’ poem took new meaning.
And like my grandfather, I gazed out over that sacred harbor.
Feeling the consuming amazement when I first saw that bridge, a myriad jeweled necklace stretching across.
Feeling his awe when he first saw the Great Lady.
And like him, I once again felt … at home.
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