My Innocence Gone in Hopkinton Where We Felt the Bombs
This article is for subscribers only.
I live at the other end of unthinkable -- the start, not the finish, of the Boston Marathon.
My wife and I raised our two sons in Hopkinton, Massachusetts, less than a mile (1.6 kilometers) from the yellow-and-blue starting line Jack LeDuc and his crew paint each year. There was no loss of life or limb here in Monday’s hideous blasts. Thank God. Still, there’s a deep hurt and a suspicion that tradition, in its sunniest, winter-is-over hues of rebirth and redemption, is gone.