I believe not everything happens for a reason…
“I thought you were dead.” my mom said through a shaky voice. I gave a confused and frightened looked to my dad and sister. We all stayed silent.
"Something terrible has happened," she couldn’t find the words. She pointed out the window towards the finish line.
"There was a noise. At first, I thought it was fireworks, you know, to celebrate, but then there was a second explosion..." her voice trailed off as her tears started flowing once more. I was shocked, almost frozen. My mom, the rock upon which my world was built, was falling apart right in front of me. She must’ve misunderstood. She must be confused. We had been in that exact spot minutes before. Maybe she was overtired from running? She just completed the Boston marathon after all.
"No!" She shouted, frustrated by our skepticism. She frantically yelled about the number of police cars and ambulances outside.
"It's a big city," we said, "it's always like this." Searching for validation, she turned on the TV, flicking through every news channel. Nothing about Boston was broadcasted. We tried to calm her, I explained that we were just at the finish line engulfed in a crowd of smiling strangers. Everyone was celebrating. It felt happy. But she was still convinced. Suddenly, the words, “Breaking News” flashed across the screen along with horrifying images I was too young to see. The street was stained with blood only covered by torn clothes and broken glass. Firefighters carried off survivors through the smoke filled the air and everyone who could still run, did. It was unrecognizable. I sat at a loss for words entranced by the TV. I couldn’t help but imagine where we would be if we decided to stay for another few minutes, imagine how the cheers turned into screams, imagine how the laughs turned into cries.
I didn’t know I could be so grateful and heartbroken at the same time, I still don’t know what that emotion was. I lost my childlike innocence and was forced to grow up before I was ready to. After that day, I struggled to understand what happened, and even more so why. I drove myself crazy trying to grasp evil of that magnitude when I was only ten. All I needed was a reason, some form of justification, but I never found it. Events like this cannot be explained, no matter how hard you try. I believe not everything happens for a reason.
Molly Brownsdon was raised all around the Caribbean and traveled often. At the time of writing this essay, she is an 11th grade student at Good Hope Country Day School in St. Croix.