I never lived in Boston, but I did grow up in Massachusetts. I haven’t been back in years, and probably never will, but Massachusetts will always be a part of me. I remember the trees and hills, and the long, dark winters that seemed to go on forever, but which could hold a spark of beauty in their bleakness. (Cold morning, walking to school after a fresh snowfall, shortcut through the woods and stopping, abruptly aware of the total silence of the world, the stark study in black and white that surrounded me; gray blanket of sky, pure white snow covering the ground and the top of every branch, the uncovered bark of every tree black with moisture.) I remember staying up late on a school night to watch Carlton Fisk hit one over The Wall and off the foul pole that now bears his name. I remember cold April mornings, all the kids walking to school with warm coats on, but then scampering home in the sunny afternoon, coats tied around our waists and flapping behind.
There are things I have to say about the Boston Marathon bombing, and our reaction to it, but not now. Not yet.