Soon after the explosions, there appeared on the website of The Boston Globe a video of the moment. Runners in the city’s iconic marathon are jogging across the finish line and everyone is cheering, when there is a clap of thunder and an orange bloom of fire from within a ring of flags honoring the nations represented in the race. It is followed, seconds later, by another blast from just down the street. The cheers become shrieks, falsetto shrills of panic and fear and the videographer carries you forward, to where the smoke is drifting and police, runners and bystanders rip barricades apart trying to reach the epicenter of chaos.
“We need help!” someone cries.
And the videographer whispers three words to himself. “Oh, my God,” he says.
He says it again. “Oh, my God.”
He keeps saying it, probably doesn’t even hear himself, probably doesn’t even realize. “Oh, my God.”
On a day that will be filled with expert analysis and speculation, in a moment of keening, lamentation and loss, on an afternoon that will require a presidential expression of empathy and resolve, no one will say any words more fitting, more viscerally descriptive than those. They are an entreaty of the Almighty, yes. They are also a susurration of helplessness in the face of stark and awesome evil.
Oh, my God because blood sits on the sidewalk in pools.
Oh, my God because pieces of people litter the streets.
Oh, my God because our nightmares now walk in sunshine.
“We can’t do this anymore,” a man named Allan Kaufman tells a reporter. “We can’t have open events anymore. You can’t control it.” It is a measure of the day’s horror that for an instant, his words, spoken in a rawness of anguish, seem to make sense. But they don’t, of course. Not really.