I sit on the park bench. My home away from home. A city by the sea. Nobody’s there but me. Boston. Just one hour away. I drive there every few weeks. To see movies. To sit in a theatre. To escape. My teams. Our teams play there. The Bruins. The Red Sox. The Celtics. Pedro pitched there. Number 4 dived there. They even ran there once. I ran once. Around a track. High school. Wasn’t any good. Didn’t even love it. But it was a team. Something to belong to. Something to keep me sane. Today sanity is a foreign concept. A figment of my own imagination. Boston. That’s real. My home away from home. Closer to me than most cities. The traffic is bad. The parking is bad. Who cares. It’s there. It’s a constant. Always there. By the harbor. By the Atlantic. The people. The sidewalks. The T. Logan. Fenway. The Garden. People talk different there. Different from here. Different from everywhere. They park their cars with elongated A’s. They’re human. Like the rest of us. They long for something more. So do we. It’s different today I tell myself. Different than most any other day. Something moves with the breeze. Hope. It was never lost. It was there all along. Just took something horrible to see it. They run. Across the line. To the fallen. Through the streets. Through the hallways. They lift those who can’t lift themselves. They fix those who need fixing. They sit there and wait for good news. They weep. I weep. But not for nothing. This means something. This means we’re capable. This means we’re strong. This means we’re not immune. Hope. It’s always been there. It always will be. Optimism is never a foreign concept here. It’s there. In our heads. In the streets. On the sidewalks. On the T. On the runways. On the monster. In the garden. A return is imminent. Next week. It won’t be the same I tell myself. But it will. It’s Boston after all. My home away from home. So I sit on that park bench. A city by the sea. Everybody’s there with me.


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