Buchenwald

Everything is green and beautiful. My love loves me. I love him. We are in harmony. I want him and he wants me. No one has given me such sustained joy and nourishment of soul as he has. It’s not the mindless repetition of a cliché when I say that I don’t know what I’d do without him. The thought of it unnerves me.

I loved him and wanted him for so many years and now he’s mine.

When I gave birth, I was amazed that my body had had that latent ability all my life. When he turned to me with desire, I was likewise amazed at my instinctual response. We are more complex than we know. We do have hidden depths. Certain people and situations bring out of me things I barely dreamed were there. That is a hopeful thing.

My grandfather’s uncle died in Buchenwald. How did he fare? He had been stout for years before his arrest. He had seemed unhappy. I don’t know the state of his marriage. His wife was one of those bubbly effervescent women for whom the sun always shone. Was that a joy to him, or did he feel her to be unable to enter into his mental sufferings?