by Allison Benis White
The sound of wind through a fence, or long hair being brushed.
As a child my father told me everyone in his family was killed in Belzec except his uncle.
Years later, I sat on a bed in a replica of Anne Frank’s room at a museum, stunned.
The way we try to feel close, to animate emptiness.
I looked up and saw nothing hanging from the ceiling, like a chandelier.
*Photo courtesy Giorgio Raffaelli.