Last year I ran Boston. The weather was in the mid-80s,
unbearably hot on the city streets. But it was like a party and we runners were
the lords and ladies, the rock stars, the heroes. The cheering and good feeling
so infectious that despite the pain and punishing heat, so many of us scaled
Heartbreak Hill without stopping and managed to cross the finish line in the
triumphant spirit shown in the photo at right. Like having a baby, it was an
achievement of a lifetime.
I confess to having been unaware of the day yesterday (April 15), the
117th running of the Boston Marathon. I had not qualified for this
event, so my attentions were elsewhere when I saw the first images, most
especially the one that has been repeated again and again, showing the finish
line where I was so deliriously happy a year ago, and the time on the race
clock: 4:06:09. Only minutes later than when I ran across the line a year ago.
I weep for those who died, the suffering and the loved ones.
There are no words. But hopefully many attempts at them, because to my mind
words claim the sacred space that viral videos on smartphones defile.
Consider the phrase: 4:06:09. Meditate on it. We pause now
to weep, to think on 4:06:09, and the lives that have been lost and changed. Lace
up your sneakers and start with a walk. Soon, the training begins anew, with
the promise of the finish line ahead.
