I was coming out of Trader Joe’s, more hungry than interested in the Marathon, rounding the corner of Bolyston and Gloucester, when the first bomb went off. The smell of gunpowder, some sort of black powder, moved up the street when the second exploded and then I started running. My office is around the block. Three children, who minutes before were cheering their mother, huddled with their dad frightened and confused on my steps. The best I could offer was cold water and then their mom came running down the street more concerned about her children’s fear than her own injury.
In the midst of this I had the weird thought that black powder is local.
Tonight the Boston sky is painfully beautiful.
It is almost a year later. I remember the smell of gunpowder and blood.
A cop who came up to me two days after the bombing and said he was getting so much love he felt like a firefighter.
Clients from the suburbs, worried it was going to be more difficult than usual to park near my office.
The Southwest Corridor dog park where we gathered during curfew in small defiant affirmation that our dogs still needed to play.
The liquor store on Columbus that opened before curfew ended, acknowledging they needed the business and we needed to drink.
The dissociation, shock and gentle comfort my neighbors offered each other.
I remember anger at those who wanted to help, but mostly wanted connection to the story. The feeling they wanted to colonize our experience, and my guilty recognition of my own excitement.
We remain civilized. The same neighbors who wanted to tear those brothers apart remain overwhelmingly opposed to state sponsored murder. Boston Strong!
April 21, 2014 a very fine day.