April 15th, 2013

I was eight when my godparents

brought me to go

and watch the runners

go to Boston.

I wore a light jacket,

of the color blue,

because it was sunny,

but just a little chilly.

We got to Hopkinton early,

we wanted to get

a good spot on the curb.

I drank apple juice

in the lawn chair,

and rolled in the grass.

Families warmed up their grills,

and people drank their coffee.

The runners took off,

barreling down the road.

I yelled the names,

plastered on their shirts.

The day was like a party,

full of laughter and celebration.

The people in wheelchairs

zoomed past.

Team Hoyt was a sight to see,

everyone had a chance to run.

We arrived home after

the athletes went by,

and I went outside to play

with the neighborhood kids.

"Were you really there?"

"Did you see it?"

they asked me.

I went inside and asked

if it was true.

I was confused as the pictures

flashed on the TV.

We sat there, watching.

For days they were missing,

we were on edge and cautious,

as they could be anywhere,

ready to strike again.

I was there and I saw them,

the athletes going in.

A day full of excitement,

soon turned into dread.

We went back to school,

and donned our "BOSTON STRONG"

merchandise.

Some of us knew better

than others who did not

understand.

They found him under a boat.

In a yard in Watertown.

The public was safer,

many limbs and lives,

were gone.

I had never understood

why bad people do bad

things.

Until the moment,

when I asked what happened.

And why everyone was so happy

that we had been

at the start line.

I'll never understand

why people cause hurt.

Events meant to celebrate,

do not correlate with bombs.

I was eight when I went

to watch the Boston Marathon.

A yearly tradition,

I so looked forward to.

I will never forget

what it means

to be BOSTON STRONG.