Patriots’ Day, my husband, a New Englander, reminisced last night, is special for kids. It’s a school holiday, celebrating the battles of Lexington and Concord, and it’s also usually a home game for the Red Sox.
How much more wonderful to have your father running in the one of the most prestigious marathons in the country and to be positioned near the finish line.
One of the things that saddens me about the death of Martin Richard is that he had ever right to be joyful. Every reason to stand proudly and eagerly and expectantly near the finish line and cheer for his father. No reason to live in fear that at 2:50 that afternoon a bomb would detonate and take his life and hurt his beloved mother and sister.
My father has written about unexpected tragedies and often follows a theme that everything is normal until it isn’t. All the details of a life that seem prosaic, in retrospect, are bittersweet when placed in the context of the end we wish didn’t come.