Tears on Patriot's Day

Yesterday was Patriot's Day. A day to remember our past.  A day set aside for commemorating the anniversary of the Battles of Lexington and Concord, the first battles of the American Revolutionary War.  A big day if you live in Massachusetts; many offices close for the day and it marks the start of school vacation for many kids. It was also the annual running of The Boston Marathon, a race that I hope to run some day, and the day that a good friend of mine always volunteers his massage therapy services at the finish line.

As soon as I learned of yesterday's explosion, I called Dave and asked if he'd heard from Charles. He said the phones were down and he couldn't get through.  But he'd keep trying.  So I sat, and waited, and followed the reports on the internet.  I just knew he was there.  

Dave and Charles have been friends since middle school.  We all lived together one Winter in Boulder, Colorado.  The Fall and Winter we thought we wanted to relocate to the Rocky Mountains.  Back before we had kids, or dogs, or any responsibility other than paying our rent. That was a fun winter. We hiked, biked, played in the Colorado sunshine, learned how to cook in a very small kitchen, and  then realized we wanted to go home.  So we came back to Washington, and Chuck went home to Massachusetts.  Where he has raised his beautiful girls, Leah and Lindsay, with his wife Lisa.  

The events of yesterday made me remember another fateful day.  Ironically, on 9/11 Dave was coming home from a trip out east.  He had gone back for Lindsay's christening.  And, well, everyone knows what happened on that day.  Luckily, Dave had already left Boston and was on the ground in Detroit for a short layover, when all the planes were grounded.  Thus, he only endured a few days of discomfort, bad food, and the anxiety of being away from his family.  

I remember getting calls from Charles that morning, asking if I'd heard from Dave yet.  Did I know where he was?  All I could say was no.  We both sat in front of our televisions and worried.  So it seems like a weird turn of events to be doing the same thing today.  Worrying about Charles, like he worried about Dave, so many years ago.  

I don't know if  the masterminds behind this operation chose this date for its historical significance, or because they knew this event would draw a large crowd, or both.  But it pains me to see my fellow Americans, my fellow runners, suffering.  Instead of enjoying a revitalizing post run massage (from Charles) or a delicious pasta dinner, many of these families will be visiting hospitals, or, sadly, funeral homes.   If only we'd had a modern-day Paul Revere.

Last night, Nora Jane and I talked about yesterday's events.  She was confused by it all.  She wanted to know why.  Why would someone do this to another?  One of the reasons I write on this blog, is so I can try to find meaning in the everyday.  But, some days, like yesterday, it's just so hard. I didn't have a good answer for her.  

The good news is that Charles is okay. Although I did burst into tears when I got his text.  Tears of joy, and tears of sadness.  He was in a medical tent at the finish, but was safely evacuated.  But my heart goes out to those who didn't get out, those who got hurt, and, yes, even to those who didn't get to finish their race. Something they trained so hard for.  Something they might not get the chance to repeat. Somethings I just don't understand, no matter how hard I try or how many words I type.

Before bed, Nora and I checked on our zinnia seeds.  I told her that I read about a farmer who used to gently brush his hand across the tops of his tomato starts to strengthen their stems before transplanting.  We decided to try this with our seedlings.  We want them to be big, strong, and sturdy because we decided to plant them in honor of yesterday's victims.  "Like a memorial, right mama?" asked Nora.  

"Yes," I told her.  "Just like a memorial." 

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