Days Twenty-Six and Twenty-Seven

by sarajaneafshar

Birthday Eve

What a busy past couple of days. I had an amazing day today with my wonderful mother. She truly is my best friend, I can honestly say I miss her already! Although… I am invited to a sleepover at her house on Tuesday, so I have that to look forward too. I did a small run today, but mainly the last two days have been recovery days. I anticipate I will do a long run downtown tomorrow which is my 25th birthday! Birthdays have never been too meaningful too me, but for some reason 25 sounds scary and I’ve been thinking A LOT about what it means to be a 25 year-old with growing up to do.

I’ll be running downtown because I have to go back to school for a meeting (it never ends!), so hopefully I can catch the memorial sans protective covering since I still have not had time to see it completely since the day a few people started leaving flowers and notes at the barriers.

Almost no one I encounter in my daily routine talks about the bombing anymore. It’s just no longer hot news. I went to my friend’s apartment off Mass Ave in a very typical Boston neighborhood today. The city looked beautiful. The green against brick is the beginning of summer in Boston. How different this season will be for those who must get used to being without limbs. I am thinking about the hard lessons taught in the poem “For the Foghorn When There is No Fog” by Sarah Hannah, who committed suicide a few years after writing the poem:

Still sounding in full sun past the jetty,
While low tide waves lap trinkets at your feet,

And you skip across dried trident trails,
Fling weeds, and do not think of worry.

For the horn that blares although you call it stubborn,
In error, out of place. For the ridicule endured,

And the continuance.
You can count out your beloved—crustaceans—

Winking in spray, still breathing in the wake,
Beneath the hooking flights of gulls,

Through the horn’s threnody.
Count them now among the moving. They are.

For weathervane and almanac, ephemeris and augur,
Blameless seer versed in bones, entrails, landed shells.

For everything that tries to counsel vigilance:
The surly sullen bell, before the going,

The warning that reiterates across
The water: there might someday be fog

(They will be lost), there might very well
Be fog someday, and you will have nothing

But remembrance, and you will have to learn
To be grateful.

Spring off of Mass Ave: