Last year after the Boston Marathon bombings I didn’t write about it. I felt that I couldn’t do my feelings justice in words. I felt that I couldn’t do the tragedy justice in words. And I didn’t want to write about something so important, so traumatic, and not have it exactly represent my feelings. But this year, on the one-year anniversary, I feel like writing.
I remember hounding the social media outlets, hoping the see Shalane finally get that American victory, and being sad for her when it didn’t happen.
I remember getting the text from hubster while I was at work, that there had been an explosion. I immediately went to work on google, and fought back tears as I read early reports from the finish line.
I remember the feeling of betrayal, the feeling that something so pure and innocent had been forever marred.
I remember my thoughts immediately going to friends and loved ones that live and work by the finish line and to the many, many people in the running community that I knew were running.
The days that followed are kind of blurry to me. They run together and while I don’t remember exact days that things happen I do have some very poignant memories from the week that followed.
I remember crying for those that died. Crying for those that were injured. Crying for those whose loved ones were affected. It may have been in part because I was 2 months pregnant, but I cried a lot of tears on April 15 and on the days that followed. Heck, writing about now still makes me cry.
I remember being moved to tears by the stories of heroism, of runners, paramedics, health professionals, and spectators running TOWARD the blasts to help. Of people doing such wonderful, wonderful things in a time of what must have been such horror.
I remember the night things started to turn in the hunt for the perpetrators. I was in the hospital after 5 hours of non-stop vomitting (thank you, pregnancy). My husband and I watched CNN on the tiny TV in the hospital room until I was released around 4 am. I watched all day the next day, huddled on the couch, barely able to move without throwing up. I watched as they hunted the brothers. As Boston went on lock down and the streets were devoid of people. I remember being shocked at how everyone obeyed. How businesses closed their doors, restaurants only cooked food for the police officers out hunting, how the entire city worked together and did their part to hunt those bastards down.
I remember watching when they caught the second brother. I don’t even want to give him the pleasure of mentioning his name. I remember seeing the city streets erupt in celebration, American flags waving, crowds chanting.
I remember looking at pictures from the bombing and the days following. Of people saving lives. Of SWAT teams bringing milk to families who weren’t able to go out to get it because of the lock down. And I cried, again, for the beauty of humanity.
I remember the pre-game ceremony at the Red Sox game after the attack. I was at work but my husband taped it for me and when I got home I watched-and sobbed through most of it- as once again, Boston stood strong. And I remember when Big Papi said “This is our F–cking City” I felt it. I don’t live in Boston, I’m not from the area. I haven’t even been to Boston in over 3 years. And I’ve never spectated OR run the Boston marathon. But Boston certainly has a piece of my heart.
Ever since I found out you had to qualify for it in order to be granted entry I wanted to run the Boston Marathon. One day I will qualify for it, and I will run the Boston Marathon. And when I do I will run with all these memories. I can’t run next week in honor of the victims, but one day I will run for them.