In some form, I have carried a camera since I was twelve years old, nearly two decades of moments caught and cataloged. Like other photographers I know, we replay our lives in snapshots (perhaps we possessed the minds for chronicling moments before we owned the equipment). I can see the colors of my cake from my tenth birthday and the pink elephant costume I refused to wear for Halloween. I can see portraits of joy, shadows in my home, and can nearly touch the texture of my dad's old corduroy sofa that I restitched in secrecy after the dog tore it apart.

And, without any camera in hand last Monday, I can still see the faces of thousands of runners streaming by as I stood at Mile 24. Becca, blank and pale, held her phone up to me and said, "Bomb. Bomb?"

I turned back to the race, looked up Beacon Street, and saw a blur of color in motion. I lacked the ability to react. What were those bodies running towards now? We hugged and turned away without words. We needed to go home.

Without my camera, I took these images.

...dozens of people gathered under a cafe's outdoor speaker, silently listening to the news moments after I received it. The runners were being stopped and corralled in those minutes. The blur of athletes behind me was shaping quickly into individuals. I could pick out those still strong, those bent with cramps and pain, those who looked determined, those who looked terrified. Those who wondered, 'why was the marathon stopping?'

...the faces of phones remaining illuminated in the darkened movie theater, where I hid after hearing the news. I wasn't prepared to be home alone. I watched stranger's silhouettes pass in front of the screen. They couldn't stay to disappear into fiction. I had to.

...weeping into my hands once I returned home, nearly doubled over on the couch. There were already too many images flooding in, too many things to see, too much unknown. The concern for my welfare from loved ones was overwhelming, but I knew I wasn't a victim. The victims were silent in the hospital. I watched their blood loop senselessly on my TV screen.

...turning my back to my boss on Tuesday morning when he asked the simple question, "Where were you yesterday?" I half-stumbled to the bathroom, leaned against the wall, and cried. "Nothing happened to me," I whispered, "you're fine, cut this shit out." I wasn't crying for myself, I just couldn't make sense of anything and wanted to hide.

...my B-line T swinging through the closed Copley station. A moment of silence, the quivering of lips and shakiness of breath by all onboard as the driver rang the bell in a kind of tribute, a nod to whatever was above our heads.

...the joy on my friend's face when we started to stream into the bar. It was good enough to say, "I'm glad you're here." We toasted half a mile from the finish line.

Wednesday and Thursday blurred together. Friday was fourteen hours of television, empty streets in a city locked down and waiting. A beautiful spring day turning gray and howling. And then it was over, and Alana was banging on my door, demanding wine and celebration.

"You're so pretty," she said as I stood on the sidewalk and poured a glass for myself, drinking deeply. "Let's dance."

We planned to sit on the stoop, but someone was blasting Dropkick Murphys down the street, and the only correct thing to do was to walk towards the noise and toast people on the street.

"Don't fall out of that window," Alana yelled to someone up on the third floor, "the cops are tired."

Ever the rule-abider, I swung my bottle of wine and a spare glass freely. Who would stop me?

From behind, we heard happy, laughing voices and turned to discover two girls charging around the corner, seemingly wearing every mismatched piece of colorful running gear in their possession. They cackled, and one screamed: "We are running! We are running for them!" as they disappeared into a happy, cheering darkness.

I've seen firsthand that we are a smart, efficient, tough town. Strength and grim humor emerged immediately. Plain and steady as an earthworm, this city displaces the dirt and keeps making new paths forward.

I'm endlessly proud of my city.

And I will have these photographs forever.

Caitlin Cunningham is a Boston-based freelance photographer. To see more of her work, visit her professional site.