I woke up this morning grateful. Grateful for my creativity, for good company, for the man who wakes me in the morning. Grateful for the good weather.

Rather quickly, I mean when you think about it, the information showers in. It’s subtle, and sort of cryptic at first: “Stay safe,” “If you’re trying to get in touch with Boston friends, use text, cell towers are overwhelmed,” “Marathon updates.” Suddenly social media seems useful. Blogs give you a minute by minute update that reflects the confusion of the scene. There are first hand photos and video, plumes of smoke and blood spatters.

On the morning of September 11, 2001 I don’t remember how I woke. Another day of high school I suppose. I remember glimpsing the TV before I left for school. I didn’t realize quite what was happening, not even the simple fact that a plane crashed into one of the Twin Towers, let alone an attack. The morning was spent in World History watching the news (we were three hours behind on the west coast). I never cried over it. I suppose because when I thought of friends and family in New York, I never thought of them in the city or near the World Trade Center buildings.

Today though, I couldn’t mention the news. I couldn’t at all, I interrupted myself with gutteral sobs before I could say someone blew up the finish line. I covered my mouth like they do in bad films when unspeakable things happen. I guess this one was closer to home.

The only questions I want answered the news networks can’t report on. One, namely, that will never be satisfied.

Tonight I am grateful for the safety of friends and family that we left in Boston. My condolences for the killed and injured.

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