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To Boston


The Finish Line pre-race, Saturday morning. 


I was just here on Monday, blogging away my time while I waited for Matty and Madeleine to come pick me up from work after they were done watching the Marathon. I was so sad to be missing it; I had only missed it one other year in my 7 years in Boston, and that was the year I was in New Orleans volunteering post-Katrina.

I was  jealous of everyone out there on a beautiful spring day, cheering on the runners and taking part in an event that is just so very Boston. But, if there was a year for me to miss, this one made the most sense. Matty decided to take the year off so that he could just enjoy running instead of training and so he could cheer on his running team. He had also been helping me train for my  own races in preparation for me to run the Marathon in 2014 with my organization's charity team; creating training plans, getting me out of bed in the mornings and keeping Maddie entertained on my long weekend runs. He had run the past two in Boston, in addition to Providence last year, so a year off was in the cards for him.

I did not want to miss out on the spirit of Monday entirely though, so I spent the morning watching it on the internet, tracking all of my friends who were running and thinking about how much I  love Boston, running, and spring days.

Then, you all know what happened.

It took less than an hour for me to locate the people I needed to find; everyone I love was safe, including my baby, husband, nanny and her partner who had been in Wellesley together watching the runners. Matty decided to go there instead of use the VIP passes for the finish line so they could be with the other Genzyme team supporters and it made more sense in terms of picking me up from work, even though I said I could take the T (he never lets me when he can pick me up). My family was safe and not standing in the spot that we all stood in last year to watch Matty cross the finish line. The exact spot where three people lost their lives and hundreds were terribly injured. Our spot, on the news, as ground zero.

The absolute horror I felt to know that my city and my sport had been violently attacked cannot be adequately put into words. I am trying. This is what I am doing here on this blog, what I did last night as I sat in my church in Dorchester, just blocks from the home where little Martin Richard will never go back home to, crying and praying with my neighborhood. This is what I do as I watch the news, when I unplug and watch my baby play and what I was doing this morning as I ran along the streets of Boston. I try to find the words, and the best I can do is to say what I know to be the absolute truth.


Boston, I love you.

You are my chosen hometown, the city where I learned how to be an adult, the city that gave me my education and successful career, the city where I made the best friends a person can ask for, the city where I met and married my Boston-bred husband; this is the city where we choose to raise our child and our future children, the city that we love and cherish and enjoy. My home. My city.

And because I know my city, I know that this act changes nothing. We are a stubborn bunch, and will not allow this to change the way things have been done here for hundreds of years. The acts of violence on Monday have been completely overshadowed by the incredible acts of kindness that occurred in immediate response to the attack: the people that ran towards the hurt without knowing if they, too, were putting their lives in danger, the love and support that people all over the globe have shown us, the work being put into the investigation and the work of the doctors and nurses still tending the the injured. I know there is more of this to come, and there will be so many moments to make me proud of my city over and over again, and as we heal and move forward I will forever be indebted to this city for all that I have gained by being a Bostonian.

Thank you, Boston.

Get well soon.

From my run this morning.

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