Listen, I won't be offering insight on Boston. The experience was much too visceral and yet comparatively, ours was a fairy tale ending. This blog is not the space to cope and process. Heck, we've mustered up only the briefest oral review for family and friends; it was intense and we seem unable to talk fully about it with any one but those who experienced it. Even then, holding hands in silence and prayer is what comforts us the most as our circle of ten, marathoners and spectators alike, will forever be connected by a hideous, yet kindred thread.
I love Boston with every shivering, pissed off, shocked, determined fiber of my being. It is a palpable ferocity saved for a very select few in my life. It is a love reflecting me at my rawest. My strongest. My most vulnerable. Champ is loved that way, my children are not. They would be crushed under such force and so are on a different kind of list entirely- a safer, more motherly love list; you are more than likely on a version of that list too. Running. Running is on the short list, consequently compounding the roiling landscape of my current mind.
I hear the media has been reporting it's favorite angle of shock and awe. Yes, that was there and need be remembered for the sake of all hurting, terrorized souls. To be blunt, "God bless them" will never be enough. "God help us" barely cuts it. On my knees, desperate, I offer prayers and a parting look at another angle of Boston from the day. Far from that shock and awe and destruction, a step over from even the race and the marathoners, the glory, the passion and despair. The side of the city with a constant hum and a lopsided grin who slaps you on the back and sings "Sweet Caroline" in your ear because it is perennially in a good mood.
I will forever and always love Boston no matter the memories I shoulder from this past Patriot's Day. Much love to all of you in all it's forms.