His words resonated with me as
though I was once again the young American Airlines flight attendant who walked
each day from Copley Square back to my apartment on Beacon Street. Samuel
Adams, Benjamin Franklin, John F. Kennedy and his brothers walked those same
streets. They knew every sidewalk crack and how to avoid stepping on one.
The
streets of Boston were personal to them.
When I learned on 9/11 that American
Airlines Flight 11 was doomed shortly after the seat belt sign was turned off,
I felt a deep kinship to those working that flight as though I was also on
board. For a long time I had flown between Boston and Washington, so when the
second AA plane, Flight 77, left Logan and flew into the Pentagon it felt as
if I were in the middle of a bad dream that was not going to fade upon
awakening.
It was personal.
Last week as I watched chaos unfold
in real time on the same streets that my feet had once trod, my heart broke bit
by bit with each video frame. Although I have not lived in Boston for many
years, while I was there the city embedded itself on my soul and became a part
of me. I am trying to fathom why two misguided brothers turned my streets into
a bloody battlefield. They were not patriots; they were not marathon runners;
they were not celebrating Patriot’s Day with other residents of The Cradle of Liberty. They had not even
lived long enough to bitch about the IRS. And yet, their hateful act was so
unbelievably heinous that I will never be able to understand how they could do
such a thing.
The attack was personal.
Normally, I write a humor column revealing
the lighter side of life, but I am angry and bereft of humor today. Clever
thoughts elude me. I can’t get beyond the question that continues to haunt
every decent American: How could they do such a horrible thing?
I don’t run anymore unless I have to. Truth be told, I was
never marathon material. At my age, I’m happy that I can still walk. But God
willing on Patriot’s Day, 2014, I intend to be one of thousands standing on the
streets of Boston even if I have to walk from Georgia. I won’t run in the race,
obviously, but I will cheer loudly for those who do. In spite of what happened
this year, my guess is that more runners than ever will participate in the
marathon. What better way to deliver a Gotcha!
to the ones who managed to break our hearts but can never break our spirit.
Boston is now personal to all of us.
