On the morning of April 15, 2013, you were beautiful

And the city was well aware.

But by the afternoon Boston, its back arching with chaos, had changed it's mind.

The shouts of the bigots drowned out the tolerant majority.

The next day before you go out 

you hold your silk hijab in your hands 

and contemplate.

Shunned if you don't 

and now 

shunned if you do.

I remember you used to stand on the harbor and spread your arms out, turned towards the city

The only person on the North Shore who could face away from the ocean,

leaving the entire atlantic unsupervised behind you

Your hidden shoulder blades were really just grooves eroded by the waves

because in Palestine you had the sea

but you did not have the freedom.

and when tide came in 

you did not move.

You stood there-

the real statue of liberty

But the city, 

adorned with all races 

a polyglot 

wearing jewels that shine in every color

from every nation

now shoots you hostile glances

and pretends not to see 

the injustice.

What a wonderful story your life has been

although this chapter is entirely a narrative of sirens

with intermittent moments of silence

that are strikingly accurate descriptions 

of uncertainty

a feeling that bonds us together

like the tangling train routes of Boston

beyond our control

and sometimes in spite of us.

The woman with no hair at all to cover

The young man with thick tortoise shell glasses and an extra large cardigan

The family with cocoa shaded skin

The girl here for the summer, from Holland

You, beautiful, with your Hijab.

We are all scared.

So instead, 

A vow from those of us who see beyond the prejudice that severed something so beautiful long ago.

I promise that

 if tomorrow, in this temporary minefield,  if you loose the legs you run with, if you do not have hands to grasp with, if you are lacking limbs to embrace with

we will find a way to hold you.