What remains of the camp when the name dies?

In the blink of the eye, its fleeting fluttering, the afternoon eyelid in its ghostly sleep. In bed, a mass of flesh, intervals of moans. Hair still veiled and still hair. Escaping greyness and air. Hands by her side, sulking, like sullen widows. Tablets for heart conditions and life seeping through the seam. Wrinkled memories tucked away. Some water in a plastic jug for the odd cough and the house plant. A small window with creaking hinges in the far end leading to life.

I return to see her guarding the threshold and the door, hesitant eyes, as quivering as the electrical cables in the camp.

The camp has its truth, the untruth of the dialect – the witness, the dissipation of all utterances, the battered pictures on its walls, the wailing with every death and every birth.

What we see in the camp will never be completely seen.
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