Sometimes, I hate this world. Or not the world, but its dangers and all that can hurt my son. On April 15, after bombs tore apart the finish line of the Boston Marathon, one of those dangerous tentacles slipped past me. I imagined green scales tightening around my child’s neck, the joyous light draining from his eleven-year-old eyes.
This morning, we listened to the news. My son said he was glad we’d told him—even when my husband showed him the “Marathon terror” banner on the front page of the Boston Globe, complete with graphic photo of a victim, rescue workers, a sidewalk that looked spray-painted red. He’d been furious when we hid the headlines about Newtown after it happened. He’d insisted last December that he wanted to know.