Biography

Somewhere, stuffed in a box heaped with memories from the first, distant years, there exists a written account of the following; more accurate, and most likely daubed with liberating tears of joy. These here are memories that persist, after fifteen years.

“Marathon Monday” brings back so many memories for me. I don’t have anything particularly meaningful to say on the matter, but I suspect that these adventures form a healthy amount of jumping off points for the autobiography of anyone like me.

I grew up in Hopkinton, and for as long as I can remember, I have described the town to people as “26.2 miles west of Boston… where the Marathon starts.” I’ve worn that as if it were a defining part of me. In my years, I’ve been to the start of the race a few dozen times, and always watch at least a few hours of coverage on TV each year. Not the biggest fan in the world, I know, but also not bad.

I’m useless this afternoon. Mixed into the very busy days ahead due to Holy Week, and some projects at work, I have a vacation scheduled with my family in New Hampshire.

I’m a reflective person, who frequently thinks about dates and milestones. I have a friend who regularly counts down to every future event on his calendar. 30 days till vacation, 100 days till the next Olympics, etc. I work in the other direction. Past dates tend to stick in my brain, and I remember with as much accuracy as a birthday or anniversary those dates which have become as defining. Today is March 27, and fifteen years ago this evening I learned that I didn’t want to be alone anymore.