Not too many people would love this body these days; rheumy eyes set in a face that looks like a 100-year old turtle, everything that could sag drooping like a wilted flower, hair as grey as the clouds that had soured my life. But my Caleb used to love me, until we were seized by jack-booted solders, rifles embraced, soulless eyes peering out from beneath upside down helmets.
They gun-butted us into a truck that had rattled down the cobbled street, stopping before doors painted with the Star of David, before herding us onto a train, women and children up front, men and boys at the rear…cattle being loaded for slaughter.
Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I imagine my reflection reveals smooth, silky skin and raven black hair—I can almost feel Caleb’s caress as he curled my long tresses through his fingers.
I survived to care for another, a body now as timeworn and jaded as my own. But when I shuffle off for a catnap in my faded armchair, before nodding off I roll up the sleeve of my frayed cardigan and trace a gnarled finger along the faded blue number tattooed into my withered flesh. My eyes droop and I dream of somebody I used to love.