In 2013 I survived the Boston Marathon Bombing. First Light serves as a guide from the time of the bombing, to my life with PTSD, my experience with healing, relationships and motherhood. In the courtroom, I told the bomber that "I know one day I'll be a better mother and my husband a better father because we will show our children all that is good in this world; all there is to be thankful for." This collection is a tribute to that commitment and a testament to the idea that we can keep going.
In 2013 I survived the Boston Marathon Bombing. First Light serves as a guide from the time of the bombing, to my life with PTSD, my experience with healing, relationships and motherhood. In the courtroom, I told the bomber that "I know one day I'll be a better mother and my husband a better father because we will show our children all that is good in this world; all there is to be thankful for." This collection is a tribute to that commitment and a testament to the idea that we can keep going.
Preface
Describe in your own words the harm you suffered from the crime the defendant committed. Explain the physical, emotional and financial harm you endured. Include any long-term impact you foresee, and describe what that means to you and your lifestyle.
In 2015, US Attorney Carmen Oritz asked survivors of the 2013 Boston Marathon Bombing to write personal Victim Impact Statements. The documents are meant to help the court and jury gain a deeper understanding of how crime influences individual lives. I chose to read my statement aloud at the sentencing hearing.
As I read, the narrow courtroom podium offered little protection for my spirit. My voice shook. And at one point my eyes met his empty gaze. His waif frame was nothing more than bones draped by a suit and his hair somehow climbed towards the ceiling, floor and walls simultaneously. I kept my eyes steady, sending a silent prayer - May we never meet again.
-selection of my statement-
May 2, 2015
Good Morning Judge O’Toole and Attorney Ortiz, Thank you for this opportunity.
It is nearly impossible to answer your question. That is my most important statement.
It is a huge ask, distilled down to three black and white lines of text. Text that ends with the question “what does this mean to you and your lifestyle?”
I will match the direct nature of your question because there is power in a collective voice. I hope you read 260+ messages of triumph, fight, struggle, loss, madness and strength. Just know your question is too simple and the fight is too complex. We all wish we knew the answer.
Two of my friends were waiting for me at the finish line. Those girls were blown up, suffering life threatening injuries. The weight of guilt is insurmountable. The memory of their suffering is burned in my brain. All that once felt secure and safe in the world is jarred. PTSD is a beast I continue to tackle. I have panic attacks, and at one point in January 2015, they occurred every 48 hours for weeks. I work to control severe anxiety, frequent nightmares, and the disconnect associated with losing all that once defined me. When you once earned a keep, and then you stop, your personal worth suffers a far greater loss than can be counted in dollars. The loss is impossible to capture.
I try to remember that the bombing will not forever define me. It will not always define my marriage. My relationships. My injured friends. I do not know when I’ll feel the shift. And the long term impact of not knowing…even that - is overwhelming.
I will list for you what I know:
I know I can no longer work in business development, an environment flurried with complex, simultaneous conversation; an environment where I once thrived.
I know I will have to find a means of professional development and financial security that accommodates my hearing deficits, my need for flexibility and personal connection.
I know I will suffer from PTSD forever, hopefully not to this degree.
I know my marriage will always carry the burden of this event. Our foundation was cracked and we will work forever to make it whole.
I know I will never be who I once was. And although we all change and grow, rarely are we forced to change so instantaneously.
I know I will live a life steeped in gratitude. I believe this will free my spirit and allow me to appreciate people in a way I never would have been capable of before the crime.
I know one day I’ll be a better mother and my husband a better father because we will show our children all that is good in this world; all there is to be thankful for.
Your Honor, I’d like to directly address the Defendant: (granted)
I came here for the first two days of the trial. I came for those girls. My friends. And I watched you. You sat there. Blank. You never looked at any of us. And after that second day, I realized I am the one who is still alive. You are already dead. Today, I’ll go home to my comfortable bed, I’ll have pizza with my husband, I’ll get to go to yoga, and do whatever I want to do, freely. You? You're going back to a cell. Until forever, that is where you’ll be. You’re the one who is dead. And I’m the one who is alive.
End of Statement
I have changed in the nine years since the bombing. The physicality of my PTSD is real. One moment my heart beats shallowly and the next it reverberates with the ring of a gong. My bones rest with a hum under my skin. Heat turns on in my belly quickly and with the internal sound of a gas grill lit by a match, whoooooommffffff, warmth flies up to my head and sparkly shocks shoot down my arms. All in a breath it starts and ends with a wallopping sense of cold dowsing my entire being. PTSD, she is a beast - and slowly, I’ve learned to tame her most fierce edges.
I live in the present. My children need me now. Their range of emotions must be met by a mama toughened by grit and softened by pain. My before is just that, and my after - well, it stands with the wind in my face and curly haired boys at my side. We jump in puddles and make messy art. I do not worry about the future, but sometimes I am still brought to my knees with anxiety about the past.
I forecasted correctly in my Victim Impact Statement: my PTSD is central and complex, my marriage is loving, trusting, forgiving, hypersensitive and evolved. And oh, sweet #7: I know one day I’ll be a better mother and my husband a better father because we will show our children all that is good in this world; all there is to be thankful for. Three tiny boys now share our roof. We teach kindness. We sweat big things. We do yoga and eat way too much pizza. We live life in the now and with joy. My boys are magic.
My hope with this poetry collection is that you connect as a human, parent, spouse or friend and find a bit of compassion that your heart may have long ago tucked away. I hope it helps you to see the world of a friend with a tender set of eyes. May it serve as a reminder that when it comes to others, we rarely know the whole story. Be kind. Keep going.
Space
One time I heard:
The space between striped grains makes the wood strong.
The space between musical notes creates the magic hymn.
The space between two heart beats holds our sweet breath.
For when we lose our breath,
Our pace, our space, our trace
Of angel’s wings—
We lose our chance to ease again,
and feel the music sing.
The space is what invites our breath
To land sweetly on our soul.
The space is where our bodies rest
As tears run down our nose.
The space is where we feel that catch
And halt our swallowed pride.
The space bears witness silently
To grief hidden deep inside.
If it is space
That makes the wood so strong,
and makes the music sing,
Then please give me the space to breathe again
and grow my phoenix wings.
Swatting Flies
Old telephone booths, like the red ones on cobbled, quiet streets
hold more than their fair share.
Offering, simultaneously, the gifts of containment and space.
I was in one, minding my own business, when
it got knocked over.
Crashed, busted at the seams.
Stunned, I checked for my parts, pieces of my scarlet vessel cast into the distance. Broken.
Never to be seen again.
The booth and I longed to rise.
Over time, and with the help of some tender, calloused hands,
The booth got propped back up.
Repairs here. Shims there. Some bolsters on one side.
I sat blankly unable to lift my limbs like a ragged doll soaked through to her filling.
Unbothered by the persistent stare, my eyes did not reflect gloss or shine.
My shell, deceptively heavy, left a blotchy print behind.
Evidence despite my fog.
Together the booth and I rested on the earth,
content with an invisible plumb line to guide us,
Hide us, help us to blend back in.
The booth was uncomfortable, and yet, it was mine.
It looked familiar and reminded me of its old sheen and ruby.
No one else remembered the wonder, or even the crash.
They simply saw a broken box and an inconsistent mark on the floor.
Evidence a girl had been here, confirmation that before did exist.
Compassionate hands plugged holes where water dripped in on rainy days,
And welded the misshapen frame upright.
Please don’t mistake the overly worked metal for uptight weakness,
Or let the sharp edges spark distrust.
The hammered booth is trying to do everything—
Stand up, hold up, hold in, contain.
Eventually, the cardinal booth became home again.
There’s a breath of memory, the booth’s original groundedness, spaciousness and ease.
But the air, it’s different in here now. That I know,
And it makes me homesick for the past.
One day a fly flew in the door.
It snuck in out of sight.
Flies in gardens, at picnic grounds, or in your big backyard—
Everyone has their space.
Maybe a carefree swipe to the air. No bother.
In the glass booth, the fly is confused.
It keeps banging into the walls.
How did I even get in here? Why can’t I get out?
Inside the booth my spirit swats.
I swing, stumble, and swipe.
I wish I had a tool—
something less primitive than
my doll-like hand,
something more accurate
that I could command,
something faster,
something to stop the buzz.
The fly keeps flying.
Invariably failing to find the cracked door.
My hands hover,
Perpetually hoping to help it out.
Or
To hit it.
The booth keeps standing—
Propped, tattered,
Welded, and mended.
And I, propelled by tired hands,
And gentle hearts,
And knowing words:
Keep going.
A Man?
How do we decide if you live or if you die?
My eyes transfix when they catch your sight,
Wondering what the reverse image might be.
Who do you see?
Where do our energies meet?
They don’t.
You are stone cold and hollow.
Your suit does not make you a man.
Nor do shiny shoes or a tie on your neck.
I remember, don’t you think I forget,
That neck nearly killed you once.
You ran from the scene—
A coward. Not a man.
As your beloved brother’s blood,
pooled on the floor,
And then he died in the gutter.
You never say sorry.
Do you think of our pain?
You smirk, blink, and otherwise stay still.
Those handcuffs, they hold
Your boyish, lanky, impish frame.
Where you live now,
Your body, your heart, your belief is the same,
Glory as a martyr. Peace without shame.
I was afraid of you then. I'm afraid of you now.
It doesn't make sense. I don't know how it's possible
That your room was near ours.
As I paced down the hallway trying to breathe
I found out you were there.
It brought me to my knees.
How can the man who tried to kill us all,
How can he be here?
In the same hall?
With experts who make magic of death.
Defying odds. Defying hate.
They hold their breath.
They see you as a gunman, as a medical test.
I see you as Fear.
I worry somehow
I’ll find myself near,
Your body, your voice,
See your vacant eyes up close.
You're handcuffed; they're armed
Away from the media, the outraged and alarmed
Resting shell, yet alive, next to all who you harmed.
I wonder about your dreams
As the guards keep you still.
Do you dream of killing?
Do you dream of escape?
Do you wonder what would have happened
Had you run late?
I wonder every fucking single day.
Had I walked…
Had I sprinted…
Had I missed my gate…
Could I have changed the end of your master plan?
Will I ever view you as a full grown man?
You lost that title in my mind,
When you sat there smirking and slowly blinking your eyes.
Your suit was neat and your shoes shined bright,
But still, as I saw you, my body halted-up tight.
A man makes mistakes, then
He lets tears fill his eyes.
A man bends his head when a child dies.
You…You are not a man of this kind.
You're a human, a killer,
Ingrained in my mind.
Random in timing, landing, and space,
My kids are sheltered from knowing your face.
They live life with joy and a sense of place.
The boys are kind and share stories of grace.
Our home is a privilege you may not have known.
From infants, to toddlers, to humans full grown—
A man you are not.
Freedom will no longer be a taste
You feel in your body or should expect in your soul.
You killed, and maimed.
Sit still now. Pay the toll.
You stole light.
You stole fight.
You stole peace in the night.
Now go to bed, alone,
And sleep tight.
“Rarely do we know the whole story,” opines author Meghan Zipin in this inspiring and penetrating collection of poetry. What follows is a rare and reflective glimpse into the life of a Boston Marathon survivor.
“The loss is impossible to capture,” writes the author in the Preface of this brief but pithy read. Searingly honest and intense entries offer a deep dive into the manifold aspects of that loss and beyond. It may not be what you think. Yes, many poems touch on anxiety, fear, frustration, anger, and the author’s struggle to tame the “fierce beast” of PTSD. But the aftermath and lingering effects of the 2013 bombing aren’t the sole focus of this collection.
In sparkling and spare free verse, the author pours out a cornucopia of emotion: Loss, confusion, and broken friendships. The difference between grief and sympathy, pity, and shame. Hope. Maternal and familial love. Healing. Scars. Fatigue and fortitude. Mercy and “magic.”
While the effects of the bombing are told in raw and robust verse, that tragedy does not define or confine this collection. It moves forward. Upward. Outward. In the words of the author, it “keeps going,” chronicling the “space in the spirit for joy,” the “gut-wrenching sting for hope,” and the fight for “a chance at living free.” Thus, First Light transcends the bombing. It keeps going. In spades.
There are many fine entries in this skillfully crafted collection. Stand-outs include A Man? where the author deftly describes the surviving Tsarnaev brother, who is unnamed. Also Love Letters “to her former self.” And My Heart, which describes “the smell of hate,” among other things. The Drop Off Line will especially resonate with mothers of boys (been there, done that). The Healer’s Prayer is more traditional prose, written in paragraph format. Other entries are italicized for emphasis.
Packed with power and pathos, First Light offers a penetrating and piercing look at how the bombing affected one woman’s life and her subsequent experience with healing, relationships and motherhood. It’s less than one hundred pages and can easily be read in an afternoon. But this is not the kind of book you want to skip merrily through or skim at warp speed. This is a thoughtful and compelling collection that’s meant to be sipped and savored, like fine wine.
Adult readers who enjoy thoughtful, evocative poetry and a glimpse into “the rest of the story” will appreciate this collection.
My Rating: 3.5