Later, back at home with two advils dissolving in my stomach and Frankie stretched on top of my chest, I remembered this story I heard one time, who knows where, about a mother found in the remains of Pompeii. She was curled up, her back an arch, and under the sheltering bridge of her body was found her child, as if she hoped to hold back the unstoppable tide of destruction with just her body alone. As if love might be the protection, the miracle, or at least the easing of inevitable.
The urge to protect is so strong. Even when the volcano is hidden inside your very own body. Even when bending over your child in a sheltering embrace brings the volcano closer. When the goodnight hug leaves only the fragile border of your own skin between your child and that lurking disaster.
And rather than running from the horror, we bend and shelter and protect.
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