St. Patrick’s Day was our holiday of church and bag pipes. Freedom to run our course through the neighborhood, unchaperoned with high spirited abandon. A flood of green ambushes our South Side domain, as strangers pour in with shamrocks and red wagons, kelly green beads and flowing bows. Rails of spectators line the divided street, East and West. Emerald city reborn with echoes of drumlines and marching bands, children gaping through the steel rails, as the parade marches enthusiastically down our Western Avenue.
Green holds new meaning for me this St. Patrick’s Day. I am a novice at this. Our Day has been ambushed and been abridged to my day. With an unexpected, I’d rather go to the parade with dad, a flood of disappointment poured into the consciousness of my domain. Marching with the beat of a wounded heart, Oh. Ok, I understand. A sensation of sadness reborn as the realization of a family torn continues to play out, echoing in my mind. I sit wide eyed and surprised, with obligatory acceptance. Have fun, sweetie. I love you. To this, I will always be green; a rookie to the reality of the divided parenting parade.