The air feels sticky with the day, the heat.  I took a hat to Auschwitz but didn’t wear it.  It seemed better suited to somewhere else: a beach walking along the hot white sand picking up smooth stones, a silk skirt billowing in the soft wind; dawn beginning to rise or set, sky colors pink and blue and purple orange; afire with possibility or promise; skin kissed.

I have my river stones from the Danube.

As we leave the camp, I take a stone and place it on the brick wall.  It’s not enough.