I.
I was home.
The day was beautiful.
Three miles away,
runners were crossing
a finish line as first one
then two bombs exploded.
Oblivious, I turned a page
and didn't feel the reverberation
that knocked so many
to the ground.
II.
Boston, I love you.
This is a place where
you can get a five dollar
milkshake and drink it
while you watch fashionistas
in Ferraris, always Ferraris,
drive slowly down Newbury
Street, never exactly looking
for parking. Walk ten minutes
in one direction, and you're at Fenway
Park where you drink seven dollar
Bud Light and it's the greatest
thing on earth, while you watch
fans who more than love the sport --
they are the sport, they are the team;
Walk ten minutes in the other direction,
and you're in the heart of the historic hub,
places where war was once fought
and won, where a country was born.
And through the center, there are students
and active minds, people willing and wanting
to learn and explore and grow, people who love
this place as much as me. What is it
about Boston that draws me in?
It's tenacity. It's strength of spirit. It's the mentality
that everyone may enter and everyone may stay,
no matter what -- we'll find you a seat
at the table -- we'll find you.
Boston will always welcome you home.
III.
My phone shook with urgency --
Are you OK? Please tell me
you're OK. Confused, I stared
at message after message,
so many of them pouring in,
from people I love, both near
and far. Turning on the television,
I sat, transfixed, with my phone
vibrating still in my hand, as I saw
on a loop the chaos of a city
violently jolted from a jubilant
celebration -- Patriot's Day
in Boston, marathon runners
and their supporters caught
in a cloud of sickening grey smoke.
I have stood in that spot -- I have been
part of that crowd. Watching it
again and again on the television, I remember
being there in that throng, that unmovable beast
that body to body mass, there to cheer
and explode with love, not glass, not ball bearings,
not limbs or bones or blood. I can't imagine
their terror, their panic, their uncertainty.
I can't imagine being there, even though I have been
before. My phone shakes again and again and I stare
at it. Are you OK? Please tell me you're OK.
I begin to respond. I am OK. I am safe. I am home.
IV.
It must be like falling
over a waterfall -- one second
there is certainty beneath you,
a pathway of water with land
somewhere below it, and the next
there is nothing but air and droplets
spraying, like fingers reaching out
to grab you as gravity claims you
for what lies beneath. What's there?
What's at the bottom? Something hard.
Something hidden in a cascade
of water. What if you never saw it
coming? Every river winds around,
but not all of them will drop you off
a cliff. When they do, it must be shocking.
V.
One of the phone calls
was from my little brother,
asking me in a calm voice
to stay home, please.
I closed my eyes.
I said OK, I will.
I watched the president vow
to uncover this plot
and bring justice to the transgressors.
I watched law enforcement officials
and doctors stand tall and field calmly
a barrage of unanswerable questions.
I rolled out my yoga mat and stood
still at the top of it for a moment
before breathing my way through
a simple exercise meant to focus
my energy and when I was done,
I lit a candle for every window
and I turned out all the lights.
Outside, sirens ripped through
the otherwise silent night.
Inside, I bowed my head and prayed.
