I should be working right now. I'm already behind on lesson planning this week and I have an open class tomorrow.
But I can't ignore the ache in my heart. If you don't know, I'm from Boston. At least, that's what I tell everybody here. I grew up in a small town in Montana, but I went to college in Boston. While I was there, my family moved away. Now, we're scattered across the country.
My point is, Boston is the closest thing I have to a hometown. Boston is where I saw a world beyond my small Montana upbringing. Boston took me in, taught me about life, and molded me into the person I am today. Montana may have raised me, but I grew up in Boston.
I woke up yesterday (Monday) morning with an ache in my heart, wishing I could be back at home for Boston's biggest holiday. Sure, Christmas is important, and Saint Patrick's Day is legendary, but you can get those anywhere. Nothing quite compares to Marathon Monday. It's a holiday all our own. On Patriots Day, the day of the Boston Marathon, the whole city shuts down. We line the streets to watch some of the finest athletes in the world fly by along with thousands of runners who are chasing their dream of completing this iconic race. The faces at the finish line are those of people in the midst of one of the highest moments of their lives. It hurt me to have to miss it.
Today, I woke up with a different heartache. I woke up to find out that the joy of Marathon Monday had been shattered. After frantically scouring Facebook to make sure my loved ones were accounted for, I turned on the news. As you may have gathered from a few posts back, I have a personal relationship with Boston news. I immediately found the live stream for my old station. Obviously I wanted to find out what had happened, but mostly, I just needed familiarity. I wanted to see the faces of my friends and hear their voices and reassure myself that they were ok. That they were alive. I have never felt quite so far away from home.