I set aside a chipped crock without a lid. Maybe somebody can still use it to store some dried goods? Here's a bit of cloth. Perhaps it could repair a ripped shawl? And here's a clay tablet upon which has been etched a woman's face. Once upon a time these things meant something to somebody. Maybe, within this rubble, there is something somebody wishes to remember?
My vision grows blurry, that ache which lives in my chest more crushing than at any time since I woke up. Why do I stand here, weeping, over a broken wall that nobody cares to fix?
My hand tingles as I dig a small, wooden statue out of the rubble. Carved from a piece of cedar-wood, the crude doll resembles a boy wearing a pair of modern trousers. Out of his back springs a single wing. The other one is missing. I dig through the
