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And of course we (you, I) continue to dream in the rich city (or do we continue to be awake, constantly awake?). The crowd of refugees, we think: these are families (and again this trembling comes over us), all these people: they are families. Sometimes someone is missing in a family: a child, a wife, a husband. We are drawn to the churches (there are so many in the rich city) in order to think. We look at various images, on the walls, in niches, on pillars, on the altar — but it takes a while before we realize: someone is missing in every picture. We almost feel like making a count to make sure we are complete: You, I, the baby (he is kneeling on the memorial slabs, scratching at a crack with his little index finger, ceaselessly, almost tenderly, groaning softly as he does so).
BabyBuddha 