The back-farm country of New England has been my home a long time.
But I’m from Boston. I grew up a ten minute walk from the blast site. I was born in one of the hospitals now full of patients and on lock-down.
My husband’s heart is somewhere on premises at one of the others.
The Common, where lost and frightened runners massed, is the same spread of green where I ran and played while the church bells sang and the sun stretched.
The library to the right of one of the smoke columns is where we went to watch film strips and have children’s story hour.
My sister was at the site and simply happened to leave an hour before the explosions.
An eight year old I have not met is dead.
Nobody should be in this club. Nobody should have to feel solidarity; this is not something a single soul should be familiar with.
This is our cry.
This is our Prayer.
Peace on Earth.
*Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes Eleanor Coerr. 1977