When I was ten years old, my family and I often went to the local church, a place we deeply respected and loved. It stood near a war memorial that everyone in our neighbourhood called Tank. The journey there was part of the occasion. From my street, past the little local shop, we would take a rattling tram that turned right and seemed to carry us straight into a forest. Neighbours and other local families travelled with us, all heading to church for the Easter celebrations.
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