This is not my typical midweek post, but considering what happened on Monday, I’m not sure how I feel about treating this week like I would any other. I’m trying to sort out why I’m feeling so impacted by the tragedy in Boston, but my feelings are all mixed up in the mess of travelling and job worries and missing my daughter so much that I’ve spent the last three days staring at other people’s children like a crazy would be kidnapper.
Right now, all I can say with certainty is that I am a runner, an American, and a human being, and on each of these levels I am heartbroken. For a more eloquent tribute, I’m turning to this beautiful post on Spokes and Petals.
Thanks for your check-ins, prayers, likes and virtual hugs. You might not know how much it means but it means an awful lot.
The Boston Marathon is such an amazing event. The city is at its most beautiful – cherry blossoms are opening, the willows in the Fens are greening, and the whole quality of light is warming from the apathetic monochromatics thrown by winter. The architecture, in all of its brick and stone, its shades of clay, turns pastel. You smell grass and flowers, and the less lovely scents of the city, the exhaust especially, are diluted and dispersed by breezes.
Because I always work on Marathon Monday, or Patriot’s Day – a holiday we were just joking about on Sunday, one that commemorates the rides of Paul Revere and William Dawes – I’ve only been to the marathon once. I was with my ex-boyfriend and was…
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