Yesterday was the first day I was in Boston after the bombing. A beautiful day. I had to return a ton of library books we had that were overdue. Yesterday was the first day the library was open after the bombing.
The stack of books measured about two feet high, and the fine was only thirty cents since they didn't charge for the time the library was closed.
I got off a Park since it was such a nice day, and walked through the Common and Public Gardens, then up Boylston. I saw it as quietly taking back my city. My home now, after living here for more than thirty years, longer than I've ever lived anywhere else. So yes, Boston is my home, unless I move tomorrow and live to be ninety or so.
I had all the books in a backpack. It made me nervous, made me feel like I was standing out, being watched, walking through the city with a backpack, which is ridiculous because so many people carry backpacks. But I couldn't help but wonder if I looked suspicious, a lone man carrying a backpack. I was wearing a straw fedora, and thought to myself, I'd stand out in the surveillance cameras. No terrorist would wear such a gaudy hat, I thought.
There were ceremonies on Copley Square, and the two bomb sites on Boylston as I made my way to the library. Standing in line in the library, I opened the top of the backpack for all the world to see that all I had were books. I was careful to always keep it near me.
I don't know if guilt is the right word. I didn't want to be responsible for anyone feeling scared or anxious. Some people were traumatized by what happened, and I wanted those people to know there were only books--not bombs--in my backpack.
Crazy thought, I know, brought on by a crazy world.
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