The lone daffodil

Last week, we should have been ushering the long-awaited coming of spring with Patriot’s Day and Marathon Monday. Instead, all of Boston and the nation was in shock, grieving.  And it didn’t stop with the Monday’s tragedy.  The eternal worrier, I had a sinking feeling that it wasn’t over. I wish I were proven wrong, but indeed it wasn’t, with spasms of senseless violence Thursday evening through Friday night. 

 We were all left exhausted, spent, and with a million questions unanswered.  I have struggled, unsuccessfully, to maintain my equilibrium and have wondered how all this has affected our children. The dude is thankfully too immersed in his Thomas trains and visit by his “Auntie Soso” this past weekend to pay much attention. Little miss, on the other hand, has picked up on my internal distress and has been clingy and even distraught at times.

So as we pick up and try to process all that has happened, I have taken solace in the small things.  Enjoying walking the dude to preschool and back, holding his little hand tight.  Yesterday morning on the way to school, we both admired a lone daffodil that had sprouted up in an otherwise barren flower bed.  By lunchtime, the bloom was gone.  Someone had senselessly pulled it from its stem, leaving it wilted and forlorn on the side of the sidewalk.  The dude was so upset.  He asked me, “Why mama, why would someone do something so sad to the flower?  Why?”

As my eyes filled with tears, I responded, “I don’t know love. I don’t know why someone would do something sad like that.  It’s so hard to understand.”