That day continues to echo with a series of inside jokes and secret handshakes. Shelling peanuts not long ago at Five Guys, Siobhan recalled in front of her siblings—still lording it over them—that the first time she ever cracked open a shelled peanut was at Fenway, on our Special Day.
She has repeatedly changed the family photo on my phone's lock screen to a photo of just herself, beneath the stands at Fenway, standing next to the Sox logo, on our Special Day. (It's on my phone right now, again, I see.)
Quite why or how that day has taken up so much space in her head is hard to say, except that it was the last day of summer, not to mention a rare day off from competing for her parents' attention, a day when we looked in every shop window on Boylston and Newbury Streets and the Red Sox beat the Royals and candy was in endless supply.
"Want to go to another game next year?" I asked as we merged onto the Mass Pike.
"I want to go to every game next year," she said.
I've been thinking of all of this all afternoon, and into the evening on Monday—another beautiful Monday in Boston, when the Red Sox won and thousands had their pictures taken at the marathon finish line, and plenty of kids would have pressed their faces to the glass of Sugar Heaven.
A Special Day for so many, Patriots' Day, pregnant with potential as the Best Day Ever.
Except that now I'm looking at a picture of my eight-year-old blinking into the sunlight on Boylston Street, and I'm blinking back tears.