This photo ran today on the New York Times website. It was taken by Damon Winter.
The picture is of Lionel Michaud, who found the body of his 10-month-old daughter, Christian, in the morgue in Port-au-Prince today. His wife, Lormeny Nathalie, also died when their home collapsed while he was at work.
Look at the picture.
Look at it again.
Now think about your life. How lucky you are. Maybe you’re wealthy. Maybe you’re struggling. Maybe you live in Scarsdale, N.Y., maybe you live in downtown Detroit. But you’re alive, and odds are somebody loves you, and you love somebody.
I’m about to leave Cosi to go home and eat dinner with my amazing wife and my two fantastic children. The heat will be on, the smell of tacos will fill the kitchen. After giving Casey and Emmett a bath, I’ll read them stories, then put them to bed. My son will say, “Story, song and snuggle,” as he always does. I’ll pull up beside him, tell him about secret agents or a dragon. Then I’ll sing him his favorite song, “Georgie.” We’ll hug. I’ll leave and go into Casey’s room. She’ll say, “Tell me something about your life.” I will—some story about picking my nose, or kissing a girl, or going to a dance. She’ll give me a kiss.
I am so unspeakably lucky, and it’s not fair. Why me? Why not Lionel Michaud? What did I do that he didn’t? Answer: My grandmother was a German immigrant who came to America, and had my mother in New York City, who had me in Mahopac, N.Y.
That’s it—the reason I’m here, and Lionel Michaud is there, suddenly alone and hopeless.
Look at the picture.
Look at it again.
