Boston

 

Boston

What happened?                                             How?                                                   Why?

I don’t know if the questions will ever be answered. Obama has vowed to make those responsible accountable for their actions. Whatever comes of the investigation into this tragedy, it won’t change the outcome for at least one of the runners.

In 1979 my dad ran his first marathon. I remember standing on St Kilda Rd near the finish line as hundreds of men and women struggled in horrible pain to achieve their goal. I remember seeing my dad among the shuffling sea of agony stricken athletes. He was my hero. I was 8 years old.

Last night I watched the start of the Boston Marathon live on TV. I thought it strange because these sort of events are rarely televised. I watched the first 20 minutes or so until I had to go to bed. This morning I woke up and the Boston Marathon was still on TV. This time it was the news reporting a bomb blast that had killed and injured innocent spectators. The footage was horrible. None of it made sense and it was an absolute, genuine tragedy. But it was to get worse.

Later today I heard more detailed reports about the attack. One of the three people killed was an 8 year old boy. An 8 year old boy who had stood watching, and waiting for his hero, his dad, to run past.

Tonight I kiss my children as they sleep. One Boston marathoner cannot. All that I hope is that he, the dad, knows his boy would have been in absolute awe. The 8 year old boy’s last thoughts would have been about his hero.

 

Appreciating every moment.