Bastards

I don't run marathons.

I've covered quite a few, and found the people who run them to be ... very enthusiastic (and also, without fail, very nice and accommodating).

My husband has run half-marathons. I've seen the pride on his face as he's crossed the finish line, and in his daughter's eyes as she's watched him do it. 

I've seen two dear friends grow even closer in an already amazing, this-is-what-love-is relationship by running together, their beautiful eyes shining in post-race pictures (framed above post-race beers).

I've interviewed an octogenarian who had run hundreds of marathons on several continents and who wasn't going to let a little thing like getting a pacemaker stop him from at least walking one more. 

I've interviewed women who've run 26.2 miles - and won the race - months after having babies.

I've watched people celebrate and collapse and vomit.

I don't run marathons, but the idea that someone would take this away from those who do makes me sad and angry and a lot of other inadequate words.

Two people confirmed dead in Boston. Blood staining the iconic street. People suddenly missing limbs in wheelchairs. A horror too big for comprehension.

I don't have much else to say right now. I'm going to finish this glass of good red wine on the porch while I watch it rain. Then I'm going to go hug my stepdaughter and my husband.

We've been fighting today. It seemed important.

A lot of people were robbed of the joy they worked very hard to earn today. I'm going to do my best to find some for myself.