I'm writing daily this month as part of the TWT's March SOL Challenge. This is about a bittersweet St. Patrick's Day that was the beginning of an ending..
We got on the 7:30 local for the city that morning along with commuters and a good crowd of revelers wearing green. There was more than a little chatter on the train, and there was a strong smell of coffee (some of it Irish, I suspect). To be quite honest, my little group was excited and hopeful, having waited weeks for this day. For the most part, however, we were quiet, reading the Times, working on the daily Sudoku, and thinking about the day ahead.
At every stop, the train became more and more crowded and eventually, the aisles filled with suit and coffee laden commuters mingling with jeans and Diet Coke ready-to-partiers. An overall happy mood seemed to waft over the train. My little group seemed to laugh and joke a bit more as we approached the city.
At Grand Central, my brother suggested we let the crowd disperse before disembarking. We slowly made our way towards York where we caught a bus (even though we should have hailed a cab). He was a little weak; yet, he was pretty sure the "Luck of the Irish" would be with him that day. He joked about coming back next year to be part of the parade.
We checked in, right on time, and he was whisked away in preparation for his day.
It was a long day trying to read in the crowded waiting room and calling loved ones with no real updates. As time went on, our optimism was challenged.
The waiting room was nearly empty when the doctor finally emerged with a it-was-a-long-day. it's-gonna-be-a-hard-road, you-gotta-have-hope kind of looks.
The tenor in the city had changed by the time I left in search of soup and a sign of hope.