Welcome.
On April 15, 2013, as I watched the awful news of the Boston Marathon bombings, I could not help but think of my middle child. Just days earlier, he and I had run a local 5K, and though he was only seven, he'd beaten me soundly. As I watched the news from Boston, I could not help but imagine what it would have been like had something similar happened to us. Or if something similar had happened to him as he ran ahead alone.
On the night of April 15, 2013, I wrote.
In July of that year, my three beautiful children danced with their cousins in the rain on Bald Head Island, off the North Carolina coast. My instinct had been to run, to find shelter, but somehow I'd had the good sense to stay. To watch.
That night, when everyone was asleep, I wrote.
On September 1, 2013, my father was celebrating his seventy-fourth birthday at dinner with friends when he began to choke. His heart stopped.
In the hospital waiting room, I wrote.
For much longer than I have been an attorney, a husband, or a father, I have written. It's just what I do. I suppose it's my way of trying to slow down a life that moves too quickly.
I am honored that you are here.
On the night of April 15, 2013, I wrote.
In July of that year, my three beautiful children danced with their cousins in the rain on Bald Head Island, off the North Carolina coast. My instinct had been to run, to find shelter, but somehow I'd had the good sense to stay. To watch.
That night, when everyone was asleep, I wrote.
On September 1, 2013, my father was celebrating his seventy-fourth birthday at dinner with friends when he began to choke. His heart stopped.
In the hospital waiting room, I wrote.
For much longer than I have been an attorney, a husband, or a father, I have written. It's just what I do. I suppose it's my way of trying to slow down a life that moves too quickly.
I am honored that you are here.
-- Josh Durham