Yesterday evening, I sat in my living room with my 9-year-old son, Evan. My wife had the news turned on and, naturally, they were running a story on the Boston Marathon bombing. As Evan tuned in and watched the video footage in silence, Erica looked and him and asked, “Do you know what is happening here? Did you hear about this at school?”
Evan replied that he had heard about the bombing, and proceeded to recount his understanding of the tragedy. He pretty much knew all he needed to. Some sicko planted a couple bombs in a crowd and blew some people to bits.
As we moved to the kitchen table to enjoy microwaved hotdogs and leftover corn-on-the-cob, I asked Evan if he had any questions about what he saw on the news.
“Do they still make bombs that are black and a sphere and have a string sticking out the top that you light, and that can also float?”
“No, buddy. I don’t think they really look like that anymore.”
“Oh.” Pause. Then, “Dad?”
“Why would someone want to bomb a race?”
And there was the question I knew would come. It was the question that our country was asking on Monday. It was the question that seemed to awake and roll around in our collective consciousness first thing Tuesday morning, even before we managed to hit the snooze alarm to delay the start of a new day. Continue Reading…