It’s been a difficult week. Margaret Thatcher was buried, but her death resurrected a generation of anger and pain. And, of course, someone for some still unknown reason exploded bombs at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. It doesn’t make much sense to me to write about Cambodia or book covers or poetry readings right now after that. Boston is one of my homes, after all. Yes, I grew up in New York, now live in London, work part-time in Siem Reap, but I lived in Boston for many years, one son lives there now, half the family comes from there and it’s where I go every summer. Boston plays a major role in my life and to watch the news and receive worried emails from all over the world has been surprisingly upsetting. The fact that it was surprising might surprise you. It has surprised me.

When I first heard the news and started my endless CNN watching, I was angry at what I was seeing, of course. But I was also annoyed. Boston may be my home, but so is New York, and I couldn’t help but compare what happened this week to the events of 9/11. And I wasn’t the only one. Reminiscences, event footage from that horrific event, found their way into the coverage of what, I suppose, will now go on to be called The Marathon Bombings.  I’m not a big fan of competitive grieving. Comparing tragedies is useless and heartless and, yes, annoying. But it was almost impossible not to do it.

So two of my homes have been victims of terrorist activity. And my third home, London? Well, that has, of course, had its own fair share of bombings. The world is a dangerous place and although I know no place is immune from political violence (and I use the word political in its broadest sense), it has caused some sleepless nights and turbulent dreams this week.

My thoughts and prayers go out to all the victims of this latest tragedy. My thoughts and prayers are with all of Boston. I’m heading there for a long weekend at the end of the month. It will be good to be home.