In middle school, I had my own routine that came with the maturity of being old enough to walk home from the bus stop and occupy the house, solo, until my mother came home an hour later with my two younger brothers.
My routine went like this:
Walk from the “bus stop,” our neighborhood sign, up the road to my house, which was the first on the left. Then, I would punch the garage code into the pin pad attached to the side of the house, put two waffles in the toaster, change into comfy clothes, turn on the Game Show Network, add Nutella to my waffles, sit on the couch and enjoy my two episodes of Family Feud in the peace and quiet.
April 15, 2013, the Boston Marathon was bombed at 2:49 p.m., just shy of an hour before I would be home to watch Steve Harvey crack jokes at corny, ridiculous answers people threw out on the show.
I remember this day because, to be entirely honest, as first I was pissed that my show was not playing and a news broadcast took over the screen instead. As I listened and watched what was happening, my 14-year-old-self began to piece together what was happening. I remember the fear, the confusion and the wonder of whether this event was going to be similar to 9/11—an event I was alive for, but only “remember” through stories passed down to me.
Sitting here now, reflecting on the Boston Marathon bombing and the Las Vegas music festival shooting that would take place during my freshman year of high school—the fear grows stronger with each massacre, simply because we grow numb to the numbers.
Similar to Wednesday’s post, below is a reflection from a currently 57-year-old woman, reflecting on when she truly felt her age, and how certain instances and experiences can contribute to feeling one’s age.
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