I am so very tired.

Every bone in my body aches, and the soles of my feet become more calloused with each and every step. My skin is wrinkled and gray, and my eyes are dull and clouded over with the pain of seeing far too much. I have lived for a long time, and now, all I wish for is sleep.

I survived through the terrors of the war, watched my comrades die right by my side, seen the Jewish families, so emaciated, starved, and tortured, be freed from the hell that was Auschwitz, and witnessed the nightmarish fate of those who didn’t make it in time for their long-overdue liberation. I’ve smelt the blood everywhere, stumbled over dead bodies through black smoke in my struggle to live, and coughed on the foul air, stained with gunpowder and death. I have seen my arm be pierced with a bullet, and still remember the pain after all these years.

It is these memories that haunt me over all others. At night, when I am alone, I cannot help but stare at my stump of an arm, the remnant of a battle wound, and think back to days gone by. The daylight chases these thoughts away into an obscure place I can manage to ignore, but then darkness comes, bringing with it gunshots, bombs, screams, and blood. Thick, sticky red blood everywhere, confusing all my senses at once.

Eventually I came to hate those long nights, when I would sit on my bed into the very latest of hours, trying to push away the horrors, only to fail and have them seep into my nightmares.

My life, though, has not only been about the war, the fighting, and the feel of a trigger under my fingers. I was innocent, once upon a time, before World War II, when all I knew was happiness. I remember fresh-baked brownies, warm spring days spent playing baseball in the park with my father, snow piling up way over my head, and the smell of Christmas trees, decorated with beautiful ornaments and beads.

These memories have faded with time, and darkened by what was yet to come. I can no longer see the faces of my parents clearly, and I cannot recall the taste of my mother’s brownies, nor can I still feel the satisfying thud of a baseball hitting a metal bat. I experienced those things so long ago, and frankly, I am much too weary to try to remember.

The things clearer in my mind are the sounds of my wife’s voice, the wailing of my baby boy, and the quiet gurgling of my baby girl. These things-my children’s laughter, their smiles, their happiness-I will keep forever locked within me, to cheer me from days when I cannot take the bitterness of life.

For I am alone now, completely and utterly alone. My family-my precious wife and beautiful little children-is dead. It is utterly ironic that I, the oldest of them all, outlive them, but it is an irony that leaves a bitter, unwanted taste in my mouth.

There is no one left to visit me, no one left who cares. All I have left are my memories of times when life was wonderful, and I recall the times when life was hell on many, many more occasions.

All I have left to wish for is sleep. Deep, peaceful sleep where my nightmares cannot chase me. Sleep that will lead me to my family.

And I think, as I do every day, Perhaps tonight, my wish will be granted.