It’s been more than twenty-four hours since the first phone call, my ninety year old mother, followed by my daughter-in-law, wife, sister… and then the calls were drowned out by texts from family, friends, people I hadn’t heard from in I can’t remember how long. Next were a flood of emails, from fellow-runners, people I’d forgotten.
Am I forever connected? I wondered.
It’s been eight years since I ran the Boston Marathon. I’ve known ever since what running from Hopkinton to Boylston Street meant to me, but yesterday I realized what it meant to everyone I know.
After I ran Boston in 2005, I wrote that the finish line on Boylston Street was hallowed ground. It wasn’t when I crossed it in 2005. It is now. I saw the innocent face of eight-year old Martin Richard tonight, and now I know that I’ll be connected forever.