At 2:50 p.m., what sounds like...

Item Information

Title:
At 2:50 p.m., what sounds like...
Date:
April 2013
Format:
Documents
Genre:
texts (documents)
Location:
Northeastern University Library
Collection (local):
Our Marathon
Series:
"Your Story"
Subjects:
Boston Marathon Bombing, Boston, Mass., 2013
Places:
Massachusetts > Suffolk (county) > Boston
Link to Item:
http://hdl.handle.net/2047/D20265664
Terms of Use:
Copyright Not Evaluated. The copyright and related rights status of this Item has not been evaluated. Please refer to the organization that has made the Item available for more information. You are free to use this Item in any way that is permitted by the copyright and related rights legislation that applies to your use. http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/CNE/1.0/ Requests for permission to publish material should be addressed to Northeastern University Library's Digital Scholarship Group (dsg@neu.edu).
Contact host institution for more information.
Language:
English
Notes:
Item Text: At 2:50 p.m., what sounds like a cannon blast tears into the air fewer than 50 yards to my left. My mother, aunt and I see a cloud of smoke fill the sky. I focus on the steeple of beautiful Old South Church, barely visible behind the smoke, a landmark I pass every day on my way to work. My immediate thought: A cannon must be part of the festivities but something went wrong. Seconds later, we hear and see a second explosion fewer than 50 yards to our right. We are confused but realize we need to leave. Where are my cousin, who is running, and my brother, on his way to meet us? Strangely, there is a runners lull at this point. My aunt pushes over a small metal barrier, as nearby police officers instruct us, so we can move out onto the course to cross the street. I am sick to my stomach thinking of my brother, my cousin, my father who is working several cities away and will probably hear news of this soon and panic, knowing that his family is at the finish line. I grab my mother and hold my aunt's back as we move to the other side of the street. Are more bombs going to go off? Will I see my brother again? These are the thoughts that cross my mind. On the other side of the street, we find my uncle and other family members who were in the stands and wait on Exeter, out of the road. A helicopter is overhead. Police cars and ambulances begin to speed by. I take out my phone to call my brother, and he is already calling me. He doesn't know what is happening but heard the explosion. I tell him as calmly as I can to turn around and not head downtown, to go far away from Boylston Street. I text my dad immediately after. I continue to (near frantically) text friends and family who know I'm near the finish line, as we wait and try to find out what's next. We make a plan: My aunt, uncle and other family members decide to wait downtown, out of what later is called the crime scene area, until they find my cousin. The rest of us head to Tufts Medical Center for safety. I call my brother to tell him. The walk away from the scene is bizarre and surreal. Some people are crying. Some are motionless. There are lots of little kids. Some runners are walking in the opposite direction, smiling and wrapped in foil blankets, completely unaware of what has happened. I can't find any news about the explosions on my phone. No one is reporting yet. We keep walking. When we get to Tufts at 3:25 p.m., my brother is waiting for us. I have never felt so relieved in my life. We recuperate, make calls, drink the ginger ale someone brings us. I use a computer to try to find out more. Once we get word that my cousin has been found and we are all safe, I head home with my family.
Notes (acquisition):
This story was collected by the Boston Globe in the days immediately following the Boston Marathon Bombing. GlobeLab collected these anonymous stories on the Boston.com website and donated them to the Our Marathon Archive. We are grateful for this contribution, which gives insight into how Bostonians and visitors to the city understood the bombing events in their immediate aftermath.