What Happened at the Boston Marathon Bombing? A Personal Tale: When Just a Few Minutes Matter

I ordered two pizzas inside the oddly bustling Salty Pig. The boisterous crowd felt jarring, so I left and waited outside.

As I sat waiting, I thought back to the newswoman who had interviewed me. Was I angry yet? I waited. And waited. I wasn’t. Whoever did this was angry. I was just sad. I was sad that the families who had come out to cheer and support loved ones had been gravely injured, and killed. I was sad that we live in a world where not only does this happen, but it happens all the time. I was sad that even though the newscasters kept telling me that this was an “unimaginable” event that it wasn’t unimaginable at all.

I did, however, realize that there was a takeaway after all. I realized that had my mom run a little faster, had Seth taken a faster shower, or had I decided to skip one last trip to the bathroom, the three of us may have all been right at the finish line as the bombs went off. Had my uncle not had to leave early for a meeting, he and my aunt would have been there. Had my wife, my dad, my brother, sister, or any of my other family members been at the race — as they almost always are — they would have been right there, smiling, cheering, and at risk.

So often, life seems so big. We get married, have kids, save for retirement. We make big, important decisions. We worry about whether we said the wrong thing during a meeting or if we bought the right smartphone.

Then, every so often, we’re reminded just how much can come down to a matter of mere minutes, or even seconds, in one direction or another. I don’t know that I’m smart enough or wise enough to know what that “means,” but I do know that it puts a lot in perspective awfully quickly.

I picked up my cell phone and dialed my wife.