As it should be. |
They killed an 8 year old. A little kid out on April
vacation, one of the first nice days we’ve had here since the winter, probably
just out with his family. They attacked my home. And I don’t understand. I
can’t understand. I may jest about wanting to drive into other terrible
drivers, or hit people who are frustratingly stupid, but in actuality, I don’t
have a malicious bone in my body. I can’t imagine doing something to
intentionally harm another person. I’m that weird person that stops to pick
bugs up off of the bike trail to move them to the safe grassy areas so they won’t
get run over. I see this picture of Boylston St across from the library - where
I grew up walking around, and I still walk around, and my friends walk around,
and my brother was walking around yesterday - painted in blood, including the
blood of that 8 year old, and I can’t figure out whether to cry or throw up.
Maybe I will do both simultaneously.
Then I
think about all the people who have been injured and think how happy their families
must be that they are still alive, but wonder if they will be as happy to
continue their lives without a leg or arm. I wouldn’t. I don’t think I’d want
to live the rest of my life with no legs. To me that would be no life. And in
this moment of rage and sadness that this violence has been unleashed on my
city, I can find so much gratitude. As far as I know, none of my friends or
family were harmed. I had to work today, so I wasn’t in the city. I live in a
suburb that is far enough out of the city and boring enough that it probably
wouldn’t ever be a terrorist target. Even luckier, we live in a country where
occurrences like this ARE jarring. This is a shock. There are places in the
world where this sort of thing happens every week.
We are so
lucky. We have enjoyed such a carefree existence. I can’t imagine what it is
like to live in a country where bombs and drone attacks are commonplace like
oatmeal. When you hear about an attack, does that rock that drops from your
throat into your stomach while you try to continue swallowing get bigger? Does
it just petrify your insides until you’re completely filled with a stone-wall?
Can your heart keep beating inside something like that? Does it make you numb
to your surroundings? Instead of expecting every day to be fairly dull, do you
expect every day to hear that someone you know and love has died and find
yourself surprised when no one does? What kind of life is that? I don’t know
how to help. Maybe all we can do is to ignore the violence – not give credence
to it. Continue life and live without fear, full of exuberance, as if we were
eight, on our first day of April vacation on the first nice day since winter.
Yes, Martin, I completely agree. God rest your sweet little soul. (Martin Richard d.4/15/2013) |
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