Around me, girls are stumbling in their heels, music is blaring, and in the undercurrent, all I can hear are glasses clinking. But my face is in my phone, watching the live streams, reading the updates. Social media here, messages from home – I frantically type to all that may have been there. Stacey who usually works the finish line, cousins who live a few blocks over.
“Are you ok? Have you heard from Maura? Who else is there?”
And there is no information, no one saying that it’ll be ok. I’m sitting at a table in Astor Cafe, full of people, but I’m alone in this one – only wanting to be home.
Friends from home told me about the bombing before I heard about it on the news or social media – but soon, it was exploding onto everything. Facebook, Twitter; I watched, horrified as the reports came in. Death, severed limbs, my mind tries to skirt over the details, unable to grasp this. Unable to believe. Not in my city. Not in Boston. My drink suddenly tasted sour.
Now the Pray for Boston signs are posted and the Yankees are making amends. And my heart is still circling the area trying to find refuge while I sit in the beautiful sunshine of Florence, Italy. So far from home, so far from camaraderie. But it is the stories of courage, the messages of thanks. It’s the spirit of Boston surging to life that is keeping me sane over here. Stories of Bostonians reaching out to one another, and, of course – that sportsmanship pride is sky rocketing. (The national anthem at the Bruins game made me want to be home more than anything). So the next time I’m in that plane circling the city I love, I know that my pride will be even more immense for that dirty water than usual. I’m a Boston Girl forever. Regardless of where I am in the world.