I’ve been searching for soothing words to make sense of yesterday’s events but none have come.
I awoke this morning thinking it was all a bad dream.
I wasn’t there when the bombs went off. I was miles away, working. Barely following the race. Then it all came undone.
But I was there.
I run on those roads all the time. I’ve crossed that finish line on Boylston.*
I, too, lost a son. He would have been 8 years old, like Martin Richard.
And my family was out there, too, cheering the runners on as the passed through Newton.
Tonight, I ran along Comm Ave, up Heartbreak Hill. It was eerily quiet. It was all too clean.
I succumbed to the grief at Johnny Kelley’s statue.
I bowed my head for several minutes and tried to catch my breath.
This affects us all. Whether we ran it or not. Whether we were there. Whether we knew those who were hurt or killed, or whether we only felt the pain and loss over great distances. Or not.
The cowardice of this despicable act will soon be forgotten. It — political statement or raving actions of a lunatic or whatever — doesn’t deserve our attention.
It will be replaced by our resolve and solidarity and courage.
Don’t be afraid.
* in the 2012 B.A.A. 5k, the day before the Marathon