A Heartbreak Deferred

Marathon Sports on April 25, 2013, 671 BOYLSTON STREET, BOSTON

Photo Credit: Catherine Howard 

During the Boston Marathon on April 15, 2013, two pressure cooker bombs exploded at 2:49 pm EDT, killing 3 people and injuring an estimated 264 others.

"You can't go to Costa Rica alone, it's too dangerous." My mother had warned me that traveling to a Central American country as a young female all by myself could be dangerous, but I took that plane ride despite warnings. It turned out that traveling far away that day in April was a blessing in disguise...as the real danger, violence, and tragedy exploded much closer to home, in my own backyard of Boston, Massachusetts. My friend ran over the finish line in celebration just minutes before chaos ensued, which means, had I not been out of the country, I would have been right there at the scene to cheer his victory. I was not there. I didn't cry out in the crowds, see the swat-teams, feel the heat of lockdown, hear the chase on the news, or even understand fully the mourning of a city I call home. I returned to Boston opening up again and getting back on its feet. I didn't have a story about where I was that day along the race route when the bombs went off. I merely witnessed Bolyston buildings in band-aids and Marathon Sports flocked with those paying respects with old running sneakers, signs, prayers, and curiosity. That silent, awestruck curiosity that tends to bubble up at places where great evil leaves broken windows and hearts boarded up till next year. I witnessed healing for a heartbreak I didn't live, or really know anything about, until it had already ravaged my community.