The Cathedral’s sanctuary is completely silent. Sunlight streaks through windows high above, illuminating the otherwise dim chamber. A few small groups of visitors quietly wander along the aisles, looking at the small shrines that lined the walls. I slowly make my way along the path, my eyes scanning the scene, attempting to take everything in, to remember it. Behind me, I hear a squeaking sound followed by fast-paced footsteps. Another squeaking sound is followed by footsteps that sound as if they have grown closer. I turn around to see a child, 12 maybe 13 years old, walking hurriedly towards me, his tennis shoes squeaking with every few steps against the tile floor. No one tells him to slow down or to watch out for the other people. They just step out of his way. I quickly step to the side, eager to avoid a collision. Then, just as he passes me, he lifts one of his feet and, from the sole of his shoe comes two small wheels. He repeats the same steps with his other foot and skates toward a side exit. In seconds, he is gone and the Cathedral is once again silent.
Twenty years ago this week, I - along with my family - was sitting in my house watching the Opening Ceremonies of the Summer Olympics. I have always loved watching the Olympics, but this time was different. This time, the Games were not on some far-away continent. These Games were in my own hometown! In fact, just the night before, I had been in Olympic Stadium - now Turner Field - watching the dress rehearsal for what I was watching on tv. Now, twenty years later, some of my most vivid memories remain: The seemingly always-crowded highways of Atlanta were practically desolate, providing a seldom-seen sight. Meeting the Frenchman who wondered if I had ever heard of the book about the Civil War written by an Atlanta woman named Margaret Mitchell. The dress rehearsal crowd cheering wildly during the parade of nations for the entry of the flag from (the nation of) Georgia. Attending the women's gymnastics podium trials, watching the Magnificent 7 prepa...
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