When I look in the mirror, I don’t see the same young girl. All my girl-like features have withered away along with my youthful spirit. It’s the aging that hair dye or makeup can’t even cover up. The aging of the mind. I languidly pull my dark hair into a low ponytail, examining the fresh gray hairs sprouting in. I’m living my life on repeat, like a one track record. I pour my coffee like it’s an instinct, something that I can’t live without. I’m 45 and i’m wilting. I have been many people, four to be exact. Mother, lover, daughter, and sister. I can still remember a few things about being a daughter, one thing in particular, my mother sewing my dolls. Her hands moved so gracefully with the needle, mending and fixing. There wasn’t anything she couldn’t sew back together. When she taught me to sew, my hands would move clumsily with the needle, stabbing the fabric multiple times, I couldn’t fix, only break.

In uniformed pride, their heads turned to the statue of the terrible man, and with stoic faces they raised their hands above their heads and shouted, "Sieg heil, Sieg heil, Sieg heil."

The man smiled and waved from his balcony as cheers erupted from the crowd. Women holding tiny babies waved them in the air as if to be blessed from the 'savior'. Men had taken off their hats and placed them close to their chests and bowed their heads in respect, for They were all at the mercy of the horrible man. With a flick of the hand, he dismissed them and they scattered, dispersing like pieces of dust, they all looked the same.

They had blonde hair, blue eyes, and the sleeve with that disgusting symbol on it, and in the distance the smoke stacks stood tall and prideful, black clouds wafting into the air. Who are these sheep children?