It's a cold day out, but the sun is bright and the sky is clear. By noon, most of us have exhausted our coats and hats and gloves; a few are even warm enough to have stripped down to short-sleeved shirts.
I'm standing on the bright green grass, just slightly right of centerfield, shielding my eyes from the sun and working hard to absorb all of the magic around me. I hold tight to my children and we yell and shout and whoop it up as we watch the runners cross the finish line. We clang bells and shake pom-pons and congratulate everyone by name as they end the race exhausted yet exhilarated.
I don't run. I've never had an interest, and I'm more than happy to sit back and watch others inflict upon themselves the dual-edged sword of pain and pride that running a marathon seems to bring. However, this isn't just any marathon. On this day, at this finish line, I'm surrounded by friends and family and as the runners pour in, my husband and close friends are among them.