Concentration Camp Rock

What if I were a rock in Auschwitz and I saw the town before and while and after?
What if I was formed of the ash of the chimneys?
What if I am a greyed piece of bone that just looks like a rock?

How can I reconcile the heaviness, desperation, misery and despair with the
joyful youth snapping pictures of bunas and bunkers with cellphones on their
Marches of the Living?

I am stone.

When you visit a Jewish grave, it is customary to leave a rock on it.
What if I were a bird that could fly anywhere, where would I choose?
I would choose to lay on the grave of a survivor of Auschwitz, my birthplace.
I would want the grave to be in Israel. A land of holiness.

I have been carried by a Jew to the land of Israel
and I am atop the grave of a survivor.
One stone among the pure white and cream stones of Israel.
I stand alone, the other rocks apart from me as I slowly get bleached by the sun
the impurity and evil fading from my surface.

Surrounded by pure Jewish souls – redeemed.

Dedicated to the memory of my dad, Zev Dov ben Yaakov, a survivor of Auschwitz

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