Tuesday, April 16, 2013
From Baltimore to Boston
Stories - real and imagined - have always had power over me.
I crave them. I seek them out.
Some stories have a way of getting under my skin and into my mind. They refuse to let go. I obsess over details: facts, maps, graphics, photographs. I run them over and over in my head, pondering the hows and whys.
It's not always a bad thing, but there are times when it threatens to undo me.
Last December, it was the children of Sandy Hook.
Today, it's the image of a dark-haired, eight year old running to meet his father. I haven't stopped thinking of him since I heard one of those killed in the Boston Marathon bombings was a little boy.
I've cut myself off from the news coverage, but I can't get his image out of my head.
As he walked back to his mother, did he grin and display his missing front teeth? Did he talk constantly of Ninjas? Revel in the joke of burps coming from the attic and not the basement? Did he hug his mama twice every night - one regular and one extra tight?
Because there is another dark-haired, toothless eight-year-old boy who does all those things. I will be hugging him three times tonight - all extra tight.