"I have a question for you," the writer asks Andre. "You might not like it."
"Why won't I like it?" Andre says.
"Because our cultures are different and mine is telling me we need to go back and bury the boy."
"I think it is a good idea," Andre says.
The doctor who is the father of the writer's child says it might not be a good idea.
The writer reminds him that if the boy were theirs, like their daughter, they would not want her out in the open like that. It is a terrible discussion, but one that sears the boy into memory and brings death home. We are all of us flesh, and ultimately bone.
So the doctor and the Haitian man, Andre, and the writer return to the boy. The doctor puts on surgical gloves and moves the boy to a depression in the earth, while the writer and Andre carry stones to hide the bones. The bones smell of sweet marrow. There is no talkingonly moving, carrying, placing, slipping, and carrying more. The doctor finds the boy's leg bones nearby and so there is more moving and more carrying and more placing of stones. It is finished. The doctor moves away quickly. Andre and the writer stand shoulder to shoulder and look at the rocks hiding the boy. Prayers are whispered. We leave his shoe lying nearby.
"Do you feel better now?" Andre asks.
"No better, but complete," the writer says.
We drive away and past the orange bulldozer that was the boy's pallbearer.
We think the pain is over and then we see a sign that reads "We Need Help." But that is another story. We will call it "Part Two of Day Two," and it is also in the folder with the photo of the boy. The earthquake has shined a terrible light on Haiti, exposing all that was buried by greed, corruption, and lust for power.
Day Three is only hours away.
Crossposted with Huffington Post.
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