We came upon them suddenly, thousands and thousands of fluttering ribbons tied to the black wrought-iron fence surrounding the Old South Church. Two months had gone by since the bombing at the Boston Marathon, two months of ribbons with messages inked on them being left in remembrance, in solidarity, in grief, in support. They were the first tangible evidence we found on our visit of that terrible day, though we had been surrounded by its rippling effects everywhere we went once we landed in Boston.

When my teenage son and I first checked into our hotel, the concierge thanked us for not canceling our trip.

“Many did after the bombing, you know.”

As we wandered down a busy sidewalk during lunch hour in the ultimate tourist pose of subway map stretched between our hands, the two of us discussing which direction to head for the nearest red line entrance, a suited gentlemen slowed his stride to assist.

“Were you scared to go ahead with your plans to come here after those horrible brothers let loose with their evil?” he asked. We must have looked a little puzzled as we shook our heads no, for he then told of his Ohio cousins who decided not to attend his coming 40th wedding anniversary party.

“It’s really nice to have you here visiting — for my fellow Bostonians I thank you for coming.”

We walked by the ribbons several times that week, the Back Bay area having been decided as my son’s favorite area to revisit. Only after several passes by that fence turned colorful outburst did one of us ask aloud whether we ought to determine the exact spot where the bombings had occurred.

Neither of us really wanted to stand and stare at the former scene of such violence, yet neither of us felt we could be walking only one street away and not take the time to show our respect.

It took awhile to figure out. The blasted sidewalk had been replaced by then, there were no neon signs pointing the way. It was only after I remembered the camera on top of Lord & Taylor’s department store, mentioned on the news two months before while we sat stunned, listening, that we found the location. Only after searching did we notice the small memorial on the sidewalk — of flowers left, of running shoes and baseball caps placed, of nearby utility poles encased in knitwear. Only then did we realize we’d walked by the spot before, our eyes unknowingly looking elsewhere.

It was the sight of the blue knitting with golden ‘B,’ small knitted hearts safety-pinned all along it, that did me in. My fondness for a city expanded into a love for its citizens with the sight of the lovingly knit-covered pole. I wonder now if that knitting covered scarring from one of the bombs. Regardless, the love and care for a city could not have been more beautifully expressed.

I listened to stories from my sister-in-law, a teacher in Boston, of how the whole community was connected in their mourning — one friend taught the 7 year-old Dorchester girl who lost her leg, while another friend had taught her 8 year-old brother who died in the blast, another friend knew a friend of their parents, the mother who lost one eye, the father who lost much of his hearing.

So many others injured: over 260 people, with 4 fatalities (3 from the bombings themselves, with 1 officer killed by the Tsarnaev brothers in a later shoot-out) and 14 amputations. With such personal stories, my heart broke for the people here.

This heartbreak was different than the generalized sorrow we tend to experience while sitting in our homes watching yet another outbreak of violence erupt in our country…although I am not sure I could explain how or why.

As a mother of sons, my mind swirled with questions of how Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, the younger brother responsible — a young man who loved to skateboard and was thought of as ‘normal’ by former friends — could turn his back on his life to follow his radicalized older brother into plotting destruction.

As a mother of sons, I wanted to understand how an adoration for an older sibling, the exhortations of one’s mother, some vague idea of identity in this young man’s mind, could make him pick up and join in on such a violent plan, regardless of sense or sanity. At the same time, nothing of senseless violence will I ever be able to comprehend, no matter how long I search for understanding.

Today, almost a year after the Boston Marathon bombing, I again look over these photographic reminders of our visit. I find myself wondering about these brothers all over again, as well.

My mind rests for a moment on Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, younger brother of Tamerlan Tsarnaev, the acknowledged leader of the heinous plan. Dzhokhar, the younger brother partly responsible for his older brother’s death, it seems, on top of every other death and injury from the Boston bombings.

In the midst of my renewed horror while re-reading details of that terrible day, I can’t help but think about this young man. I am bothered with myself for giving one single thought to him at all, but still, I do wonder….in the face of the death penalty ahead, his brother dead, his former life gone forever, what in the world is this younger brother thinking about all of his terrible choices, now?