On Tuesday morning, after watching the news coverage on the Boston Marathon bombing, all I could do was run.
I laced up my pink shoelaces, like I do every morning, and with my chin up, I ran. There may have been salty teardrops on that chin, but I ran. There is no keeping the runners down.
Did he realize that, I wonder?
I helplessly stared at the photo of little Martin Richard, the 8 year old who perished in the attack. and I prayed in earnest for his daddy, the shattered pieces of his life still sprawled out across the streets of Boston.
WHY? I asked. WHY.
I know that if there is good in this world, there is also evil. If there is freedom, there is also captivity. But why must the children be the ones to lose their lives?
At the park yesterday our former nanny told me her 17 year old brother is home and waiting to die.
"There's nothing else they can do for him," she told me, tears in her eyes.
I weep. I don't even have the strength to ask why.
I weep for her and for him. I weep for their mommy, whom we love dearly. I weep for Bill Richard and all of the other victims' families of the Boston Marathon attack. And I hate that every time I turn on the news, I see his face - the one responsible. I don't want to see him; I want to see Martin. I want him to continue living, somehow.
But he can't, and Enrique can't either, and it just kills me. I'm gonna keep running, now more than ever.