As I write this, the death toll from the Boston Marathon explosions has risen to three people, including an 8-year-old boy. The injured are more than 130 in area hospitals. My heart is so heavy.
I haven’t lived in Boston for over 11 years. I wasn’t even born there. But I grew up in Watertown, just ten minutes outside the city. I went to college in Chestnut Hill. I spent many Friday nights in Harvard Square. I danced away my college weekends in Kenmore Square and Brighton and downtown Boston. I worked on Newbury Street in the Back Bay. I wandered the MFA on countless Saturday afternoons. I ate pizza and gelato in the North End.
I’ll leave the investigation and quest for justice to the Boston Police Department and the FBI. I’ll choose to focus on the good. Because despite the pain and fear that marred this day, there was infinitely more good achieved.
There is a way to heal the heart.
There is a way to renew the limbs.
There is a way to regain hope.
There is a way to reclaim victory.
There is a way to rebuild life.
There is a way to run again.