Today is almost over. It'll probably end before I post this. But still, here I am, on a day I'm sure I've posted about before.
It's Patriot Day in Massachusetts (not to be confused with Patriots Day, which is federal holiday, and something else entirely) and two other states. For me, this morning, that meant that I was very sad, because one more of my old traditions was missing.
On Patriot Day, the Boston Red Sox play an early day game, which lets out just in time for all of the fans to pour out of Fenway Park and go watch the end of the Boston Marathon, for Patriot Day is also Marathon Monday. This was the game that Daddy and I always went to (with one exception that I can remember, although possibly others). We would go, watch the game, watch the Sox kick some ass, and then we'd wander down to catch some marathon runners finishing. Of all the traditions I had with my father, this one I think I cherish the most. More than the boat show, more than father's day car show, more than the Beach Boys, summer cook outs, or going together the the BCF. Patriot Day is our day.
This morning, I posted this as my facebook status
I watched the scores of the game on the MLB app on my phone while I was in class. I watched the Sox win, as they always do on Patriot Day. And then I came home. I turned on my computer to put on some music, and checked my facebook. When I heard the news, there was only one news website who had an article up, and it was only 3 or 4 sentences long. I was one of the first to hear about it. And I was instantly crying. Not sobbing just yet, for I thought it was some sort of accident and I didn't know anyone was hurt. I thought it just scared a bunch of people. So I was crying, and then I found out that people, dozens, were hurt, missing limbs, and I got scared.
My father doesn't break tradition. I couldn't call him. I needed to know if he was okay, but I couldn't call him. I didn't have the guts. What if he didn't answer? What if someone else answered and told me he was hurt. What would I do? I was shaking. It took me three minutes to write a very short text message, but I didn't have the guts to call him.
He was fine. He had broken tradition. Later, I found out cell phone service had been cut off, so if he had been there, he wouldn't have answered. Most of my friends in Boston were on facebook immediately, posting links, expressing fear and outrage and hope that everyone was fine. But one friend, I didn't see among the crowd. I had to go to work, and spent much of the night fighting off the fear and anxiety and the urge to vomit. I put on a good face of fake cheer. Customers probably thought I was just some ditzy girl, but my co-workers were concerned. They knew that my smile was fake, and that I didn't usually make the sort of mistakes I was making over and over and over.
Until finally, the last friend I was worried about posted on facebook about being stranded. And I laughed and laughed, and no one understood when I explained "oh, no, nothing is funny" because I was falling over in hysterical laughter.
But my heart is still breaking. I can't make it stop hurting. That's my home. And they broke it. I could have been there. If I weren't in Virginia, I would have been there, in that very plaza. And I have never been so scared.
It's Patriot Day in Massachusetts (not to be confused with Patriots Day, which is federal holiday, and something else entirely) and two other states. For me, this morning, that meant that I was very sad, because one more of my old traditions was missing.
On Patriot Day, the Boston Red Sox play an early day game, which lets out just in time for all of the fans to pour out of Fenway Park and go watch the end of the Boston Marathon, for Patriot Day is also Marathon Monday. This was the game that Daddy and I always went to (with one exception that I can remember, although possibly others). We would go, watch the game, watch the Sox kick some ass, and then we'd wander down to catch some marathon runners finishing. Of all the traditions I had with my father, this one I think I cherish the most. More than the boat show, more than father's day car show, more than the Beach Boys, summer cook outs, or going together the the BCF. Patriot Day is our day.
This morning, I posted this as my facebook status
Today is Marathon Monday, which means I should be with my dad at Fenway Park. We used to go to this game every year and I miss it.
I watched the scores of the game on the MLB app on my phone while I was in class. I watched the Sox win, as they always do on Patriot Day. And then I came home. I turned on my computer to put on some music, and checked my facebook. When I heard the news, there was only one news website who had an article up, and it was only 3 or 4 sentences long. I was one of the first to hear about it. And I was instantly crying. Not sobbing just yet, for I thought it was some sort of accident and I didn't know anyone was hurt. I thought it just scared a bunch of people. So I was crying, and then I found out that people, dozens, were hurt, missing limbs, and I got scared.
My father doesn't break tradition. I couldn't call him. I needed to know if he was okay, but I couldn't call him. I didn't have the guts. What if he didn't answer? What if someone else answered and told me he was hurt. What would I do? I was shaking. It took me three minutes to write a very short text message, but I didn't have the guts to call him.
He was fine. He had broken tradition. Later, I found out cell phone service had been cut off, so if he had been there, he wouldn't have answered. Most of my friends in Boston were on facebook immediately, posting links, expressing fear and outrage and hope that everyone was fine. But one friend, I didn't see among the crowd. I had to go to work, and spent much of the night fighting off the fear and anxiety and the urge to vomit. I put on a good face of fake cheer. Customers probably thought I was just some ditzy girl, but my co-workers were concerned. They knew that my smile was fake, and that I didn't usually make the sort of mistakes I was making over and over and over.
Until finally, the last friend I was worried about posted on facebook about being stranded. And I laughed and laughed, and no one understood when I explained "oh, no, nothing is funny" because I was falling over in hysterical laughter.
But my heart is still breaking. I can't make it stop hurting. That's my home. And they broke it. I could have been there. If I weren't in Virginia, I would have been there, in that very plaza. And I have never been so scared.
