Friday evening: Boston is on lockdown. No trains are running into or out of the city. The subway system is shut down. The Red Sox and Bruins games have been canceled. Everyone has been instructed to stay inside and keep the doors locked—only open them for police officers who identify themselves with a badge.
As of 7pm today, I’ve been sitting in my apartment in Allston, Massachusetts—a neighborhood in the western region of the city—watching the news for 13 straight hours. This number seems absurd even to me, but I’m not sure what else to do. Is it insensitive to clean your room when an 8-year-old boy is dead and one of the killers is loose? Is it fair to watch a movie when at least 13 people have lost their limbs?
Monday afternoon: I wasn’t at the Boston Marathon finish line last Monday at 2:50pm. I’d been cheering on and high-fiving runners earlier along the race route that morning, but I was inside eating lunch about a mile away from the danger when the bombs exploded.
The next few hours were marked by chaos and confusion as I struggled to get in touch with everyone I knew who had been at the race scene. Cell phone reception was terrible, but after several tries I was able to send a text message to my mother in Des Moines, Iowa, and let her know that I was okay. I told her I’d call her when I was farther away from the downtown area. By the time I regained reception, rumors were swirling all over the news and social media that making or answering a phone call might detonate another bomb. I lied to my mother and said cell service was still poor, and waited several hours to call her until officials confirmed it was safe.
Monday evening: I made it back to my apartment in time for the first of what would be many press conferences that evening, and proceeded to watch the news until I went to bed that night around midnight. The governor had announced that the city would be open for business as much as possible the following day. I’d have to travel around the crime scene to get to work.
Tuesday morning: I made an effort to go about my day as usual, but the city’s wounds were on display for all to see. When I got on the T for my morning commute, there was an empty seat waiting for me. Usually I have to hold my breath and do some body contortions just to fit on the train. When we approached Copley Square, the conductor announced, “This station is closed today.” He didn’t say why. He didn’t have to. We all knew there was still blood on the sidewalk directly above us. Police and National Guardsmen were everywhere. They were supposed to make us feel safer, but really they were just a constant reminder that something was wrong.
The names of two of the victims were released: 8-year-old Martin Richard and 28-year-old Krystle Campbell. The name of the third victim, Lu Lingzi, a 23-year-old graduate student at my alma mater, Boston University, came out the next day. With those victims and their stories on my mind, I shed my first tears since the bombings occurred. I’ve cried every day since.
I went to my first Boston Marathon as a freshman in college just five years ago. I’m a Midwesterner who hates running and had no idea what would possess anyone to do so for 26.2 miles. Still, I decided to tag along with some friends who wanted to see what the race was all about. I quickly learned that for most Bostonians, the significance of the marathon has little to do with running.
I’ve read scads of articles and Facebook statuses that try to capture what makes the Boston Marathon so great. It’s a sporting event where there’s no opposing team. You want everyone to win. And no matter how miserable the weather has been in the weeks leading up to it, Marathon Monday always seems to fall on a gorgeous sunny day.
“I’m great. What could be wrong? Tomorrow is Marathon Monday,” the grocer told me when I asked how he was doing the night before.
“This is the greatest day in Boston,” one friend remarked just hours before the explosions.
I’m not sure any of these explanations really describe what makes the marathon so amazing. I’d say everyone should come and experience it for themselves, but I fear the experience will not be the same for several years to come.
Friday: I woke up at 6am to a text that read, Stay inside! Turn on the news. Suspect 1 is dead. An MIT officer is dead. Suspect 2 on the loose in Watertown. Allston is one of the towns being told to remain inside.
All day long I’ve heeded that warning, watching as the police surround Watertown, approximately 3 miles away from my home. All day long I’ve waited for something to break the tension that has suffocated this city for the last five days.
As I approached hour 14, something finally happened. Nineteen-year-old Dzhokar Tsarnaev, known all over Boston—perhaps across the world—as Suspect 2, as White Hat, as the only living Boston Marathon Bomber, was found. For a moment, I took a breath. The lockdown is over. The city is safe. Aren’t I supposed to feel better?
Boston’s heart has been broken. Three civilians and a police officer are dead. Nearly 200 people are injured. Undoubtedly, our heart will heal, but only time will tell when that can happen. Finding a wanted baby-faced 19-year-old boy won’t relieve the pain we’ve felt the last few days. Learning the killers’ motives won’t erase the image of little Martin Richard missing a front tooth and holding up a sign that read: “No more hurting people. Peace.”
The heart of this city has been shattered. Undoubtedly that heart will heal, but only once we follow Martin’s advice. No more hurting people. Peace.
Anna Sims is a New York Family reporter and recent Boston University graduate. Originally from Des Moines, Iowa, she currently lives in Boston and makes frequent trips to New York.
