Whenever there’s an earthquake, I wait for the newspaper story about the sound in the rubble
where the rescuers didn’t think there was any life left. They dig anyway, until they find a small child. Maybe his mother is waiting as they dig. Maybe she’s dead, her body protecting him from the crush of stone. But the child — there’s always one — is alive, and I focus on him, because thinking about what happened to his sister is too much. Thinking about the tens of thousands is too much. Thinking of bodies piled on the street is too much. I am looking for hope here, a miracle, so I search through the fine print. I wait for the child to move.
Added, 1.14, a link to this AP photo.