No service, all headed home
stuck in the hotel, but safe
I’m a mess. But my people are safe. With each update my stomach moved into dimensions I didn’t know I had and my heart leapt in my chest. I hunted for messages from my runners, my cheering squads and my Marathon Monday partiers. Through a mix of facebook, gchat, texting and phone calls I felt like I was running a mini-command center for safety checks.
And they are safe.
Boston was my home for five years, the longest I’ve lived anywhere as an adult. Boston is still my nearest major city, and having just moved, it remains a huge part of my east coast life. I’ll admit Boston and I have a love/hate relationship. Although it was tough to get used to the scowling clerks, T drivers, commuters, dogs (yes, even the pets have an attitude), I eventually came to love Boston’s rough edges.
Because not too far beneath it, this city has heart. Boston protects its heart, like a good New Englander. It may slap you in the face with “wintry mix” and it may seem like the drivers have all signed an agreement to put your life in danger, but it’s all just to see if you are worth its love. The love that you get glimpses of through walks around the Arboretum, a night at Fenway, communal cursing of the MBTA, glorious nights at the Silhouette and, most of all, on Marathon Monday.
It’s the only city-wide celebration where strangers smile at each other, make fools of themselves cheering, and share race-side bloody marys while cops chuckle knowingly on the corner. The only time I ever see Boston put its heart on its sleeve…
Now the question is moving from “are you safe” to “are you okay?” No, I am not okay. I need everyone to report to the gigantic human pigpile in my living room. Stat.
I need bodies to be whole. I need them to finish their race, hug their dad, cry tears of joy after 26.2 miles.
That isn’t going to happen. This gorgeous, fiercely protective, proud city has a hole in its heart. And I have one in mine.