Friday, April 19, Cambridge, Mass.
This morning, I awoke to my nervous son, holding out the phone. It was the head of his school, calling to let us know that the last day of vacation camp had been canceled because of “the events in Watertown.”
“What events?” I asked groggily.
He paused—how can she not know already?—then gave me the brief outline of a gun battle with the bombing suspects and one still on the loose.
All the while, my eleven-year-old watched anxiously, eagerly. When I told him camp was closed, his narrow shoulders caved. It had been his last day to make “lacy candles,” to pick up the pillow he’d quilted.