I am dying.
My life the past year has resembled sand permeating through a sifter slowly becoming less and less in abundance, and now I’m on my last few grains.
I hear my heart beating its last few beats.
I see the other soldiers who have fought this battle of hardship and tears, this battle with no victory.
I say nothing, for my thoughts are pulsing only as fast as my weak diminished heart, and I can not conjure any sequence of sounds to express what has to be said, what has to be heard.
I cry, but I feel nothing. As a single tear meanders down my face, tracing my cheekbone; I know this is it, I know this is truly over, but I know not what to think.
I am dying.
I am giving up.
I feel the gritty sand beneath my head, the sand that I am becoming one with.
I try to feel some emotion; I try to feel sorry for those bellowing out of the smoke stacks. I try to feel hopeful for those able to still come out alive, but I can’t. So I don’t. I dream.
I dream of being at home playing checkers with my brother. I dream of the knock on the door. I dream of the grave faces of my mother and father, but I dream of the cynical smirks of the Gestapo’s more. Then the dream’s over and the nightmare begins. I snap back into reality, awakening one last time, to realize that I’m not dying, I’m just moving on, I’m being liberated, I’m being freed.
And finally I feel; I feel reassured.
And finally I say; I say it’s time.
And finally I am; I am free.