Last night’s flickering images of the crowd in Watertown showed collective hands raised in applause and voices raised even higher in cheer. This demonstration came four days late, ending the marathon in darkness illuminated by infrared instead of the brilliant Patriots Day sun. In the days that followed the starter’s gun, I realized I didn’t know who won, but did anyone really win?
We are a country, a world, maturing, we are like a child our innocence stripped away by the events that shape our lives. The Boston Marathon Bombing is like 9/11, Oklahoma City, and the all too frequent capricious loss of life at our schools, theaters and shopping centers. These surreal events are forever etched in our collective memory by washed-out TV images of strobing police lights and the talk of flash bang grenades.
Our lives are like a marathon and our race is not won. We have many miles to run, many hills to climb, many heartbreaks to endure. We need to pick each other up, wipe the dirt from our hands, spit the blood from our mouths, and take that first deep breath of resolve and forge ahead to each other’s applause.