And For That . . .

Majdanek Extermination Camp, Lublin, Poland
Photo by Noreen Brand (c) 2005

I am the quiet one.

Obedient.

Young enough.

But not so young

as to attract the cruelest ones.

Once pretty, but not too much so

as to be singled out.

Not muscular,

like the men

like how they were

once.

So many men,

gone.

I am a whisper

that goes unnoticed

in a graveyard of ghosts.

Daily I am led

to this gray place

where death’s scent

lingers forever.

Methodically

Handed my bucket,

and my rag,

I set to work

sanitizing sin.

Soon the dementia sets in.

My bony hands scrub

every corner

every pipe

every flesh infested tile.

If they did not take me away

I would never leave.

For this is all that I have become.

Manically, methodically, meaninglessly.

Except for that singular moment

come late afternoon

shortly before the sun sinks

even further away

than the day before,

and the day before that.

A trickle of light,

And time belongs

to me again.

A sliver slips inside

through a small crack in the slats

where the pipes don’t quite meet

the ceiling exactly right.

Warm and golden,

it pauses here.

And for that,

I endure.