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At breakfast, when we talked about it, we sort of agreed that, while it still came as a surprise, the midnight tremor, judging from its gentle rather than threatening motion, could be the last, and that the ground was finally resting like a coin at the end of its spin. But at midmorning, in this coffee shop, when I was set to begin this piece, the floor jerked a tad too long. I felt that, if it went on for one more second, I should initiate exit plans.

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But early this morning, just two hours before the aftershock, I managed to slip inside and gingerly climbed up the stairs to my office. Two of my staff were there, slipping the case records into sacks. As I passed by, I commended them for their courage and resourcefulness.

It was the first time that I saw my office since the earthquake. It did not look too scarred considering that the upper floors were a shambles and most of the other rooms a wreck. Some of my trophies had lost their heads (sic transit gloria mundi). The little statue of St. Michael, which I had installed atop the computer to drive away the Satanic viruses (and verses), had disappeared. Except for this and the records lying spread-eagled on the floor, it was still the same room where I had labored for twelve years. Quickly I gathered my papers (those I would need for my retirement) and carried them, together with a cellphone charger, a nail clipper and a book of poems (mine), out of the building.

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Our present condition does not much differ from years ago, when a bridge near our home split in two places. Because there was no other way, and everyone else was doing it, and I was on a pressing errand for my family, I walked on the portion between the cracks with bated breath, knowing that at any time that part would fall (it did three hours later). All the while, in all humility, I acknowledged my utter dependence upon God, addressing him with these words from Psalm 56:3 — “When I am afraid, I put my trust in thee.” And, yes, He protected me. Thinking of it now, as of our present perils, I am drawn to that uncertain portion between cracks. What name should I give it? For what could I use it as metaphor? Because it reminded me of God, and I was there to serve the needs of the people in my care, there is no answer I can think of, except love.


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