Alchemy
Maya Baranovsky

I twirl my necklace,
barely aware of the points pressing against my chest.
Exiting the elevator,
my eyes meet hers
as she stares out from the photograph
that’s plastered on the wall.
Her bony arms wrap around her thin legs to keep warm;
Her eyes are full of hope, but also fear and strength.
I don’t know her name. She’s one of many,
and she stares
right in the lens, right at me.

I tear my eyes away
and keep walking.
I hear muffled whispers
shuffling footsteps.
But I walk on,
reading each sign carefully,
searching the bystanders faces
for humanity.
Carefully.
The charm is a pendulum around my neck.

I walk through the glass corridors.
The star burns as I look at
the tattooed forearms,
the mountains of shoes,
the clumps of human hair,
All signs of those stripped of their dignity.
My fingers rub against its edges,
the metal flickering against blackness.
I notice some others do the same,
fiddling with the 6 points that rest over their heart
like a shield,
protecting the ache in their chests.

My feet are cinderblocks,
cementlike and heavy.
I force them to drag on.
My thoughts race
as my eyes swarm over children’s clothes.
I see the hat of a little boy.
I imagine
him wanting another chance
to play with his toys,
to hear his mother’s comforting voice.

My hand finds the charm again.
I lift it, its points now gleaming,
with the weight of stories.