I thought of you often this week, what with photojournalists playing such a vital role in telling the story of the horror in Boston. Last November I was walking to the vegetable market when I came upon the final yards of the Florence Marathon. I hadn't intended to stand at the finish line. But there I was, transfixed by the outburst of emotion on every face as it contorted into the purest expression of unmitigated pride, relief, joy, ecstasy, exhaustion. I couldn't keep myself from crying, and I couldn't walk away from the spectacle.
Pavarotti' s "Nessun Dorma" from Puccini's Turandot blared over the loud speaker. The crowd sang along. We are animals meant to run and sing and cry. It seems like that's all we did this week.
I play the song now in my head, and then I play the sound of the explosons.
ella tua fredda stanza, / in your cold room
guardi le stelle / watch the stars
che tremano d'amore / that tremble with love
e di speranza / and with hope