rivervox

I'm not Boston Strong. I found out a few weeks ago, on March 26, when a fire engulfed a building on Beacon Street, killing two fire fighters. I stood in the kitchen of my office, looking out the big windows and wondered why there was fog on Boylston Street on a sunny, windy day. Could it be smoke? A jolt of fear went through me. A fire, I found out. A really big one. My anxiety started to rise. I needed to get home. I had no meetings so I left as soon as I could. Pushing open the front door, I froze when I smelled the smoke That's when the real panic hit. Fighting the wind up the stinking, smoke-filled street, I got to the subway as fast as I could, desperate to get out of there. My body pumping adrenaline into my blood saying - this is a dangerous place, remember?

I was out at a farm in the suburbs looking at baby goats when I heard the news on April 15, 2013. The buzz spread through the parents in the barn and I went outside to check twitter & field anxious messages from family. We stayed at the farm as long as we could, then drove back in to the city.

My office on Boylston Street, was closed the following day, since it was inside of the crime scene perimeter. Wednesday it opened and I went in, full of trepidation, making sure to hug & kiss my kids goodbye. I thought of walking all the way but decided to get on the train and see how I felt. The other passengers were silent. Dour, anxious, suspicious. Too afraid to pass through the closed train station at Copley, my stop, I got off at Hynes, gulping for air as I ran upstairs. Newbury looked oddly normal as I walked the first block. Except for the police and soldiers on patrol. Except for the quiet. The closed stores. No traffic. On the first cross street it hit me like a cannonball in the stomach. The blocked off street was filled with trash, the things dropped when ten thousand people fled for their lives. Water bottles, hats, mylar blankets, bags, signs, jackets, bottles - all guarded by police officers in vests & helmets. As I walked up the street the scene grew more surreal. Media trucks, posters of encouragement, FBI trailers, more police, more trash. I made it up to where I could cross to my building, where a memorial was being created with bundles of flowers and shoes and stricken, sad people staring down the closed street with TV cameras and security everywhere. I ducked into the calm of my building, which seemed like a sanctuary except for the fact that our windows face west and look right out on Copley Square.

The closed street haunted us. It remained a crime scene for weeks as the area and all the trash was all searched by dogs, cops and people in white suits. Otherwise, it was silent and empty. Just mylar blankets blowing in the wind. I'd get a cup of coffee and stare out at the post-apocalyptic scene outside our windows.



It got to me. The horror of that day sunk in deep, even though I was not in any danger. I was thoroughly terrified. Terrorized. The second day, I dared to ride the train all the way home, holding my breath, my heart pounding, as we passed through the dark, closed train station. Nothing happened to me. I was a victim of my imagination more than the Tsarnaev brothers, but it persists. As I found out the day of the fire, the memory of danger is powerful.

I am in awe of the people who are going back. The runners, the medical staff, the families and volunteers who are returning to the marathon. One of my colleagues is going to run. Her courage is inspiring but I can't begin to match it.  I'm not ready for tomorrow. I'll take the kids up to see the start of the marathon as it passes through our town, then we'll drive out to the country to find some goats.