As I walked on the rubble and thought of all who perished there, I began to mourn. The seminary was the most solemn place. A dented chalice. A single shoe. Rosaries left by loved ones. Notebooks, pens, everyday items that were parts of the lives of the seminarians were strewn about. Left in the aftermath, as if it was to painful for family to carry those things away. I added a handful of dirt to the open grave, out of respect for the person who was left only half buried. Why was he left exposed? Was someone waiting for a blessing? There was no one there but us. Why didn’t we bury him? Were we afraid to interfere with someone else’s process? No. I think we were all just stunned. Tomorrow will be a better day.