I cry very easily. This week a few sturdy shoulders helped catch the tears. I was depressed, then mad, then confused, then cautiously triumphant, and then still depressed.
Of course I am also proud of Boston, of the police force, of the "happy" ending to this terrible, terrible event.
And what's coming now?
The future. I don't know what redemption is. Not in real life. Will justice be served or merely invoked? Dzhokhar is younger than my little sister. I'm not forgiving him. I want to shake him. Or go back in time and change his mind.
The past. Always more pure than the present.
I just talked to my mother on the phone. She told me the first bomber, the older brother, lived two minutes from the house I grew up in. We used to trick-or-treat at his house, in a development full of kids and families. There were helicopters circling on Tuesday and she didn't know why.
I hope I never have to serve on a jury. I can't ever look at someone and wash my hands of them. My first impulse is never to "convict." Doesn't that mean I lack "conviction?" I have a bleeding heart, I guess. I don't know what that really means. Maybe that I bleed for everybody. It gets all over the place.
The victims first.
But then there's always more. It never runs out. Stupid heart. I wish there were a cure. I don't think there is.