Parade Day

Today was St. Patrick’s Day parade day—something that has always been one of my favorite days of the year. The excitement, the traditions, the joy of it all… it used to mean so much. But this year feels different. Because of COVID and the cold weather, Erin only ever made it to one parade. Just one. And now, the thought of going without her feels too heavy to carry. What was once a day I looked forward to now feels like a reminder of what we didn’t get enough of—and what we’ll never get again.

“Her Only Parade Day”

Four years ago today,

the Scranton St. Patrick’s Day Parade

returned to life—

streets overflowing,

a city finally breathing again.

After years of waiting,

of quiet Marches and missed traditions,

everyone showed up

ready to celebrate.

And there you were—

my little girl in a sea of green,

wearing your clover,

stitched with flags of the U.S., Ireland, and Ukraine,

a tiny symbol of a world

trying to heal.

The bagpipes played,

the crowds cheered,

the energy wrapped around us like something sacred—

and you…

you slept.

Through all of it.

Curled up in peace,

untouched by the noise,

as if you carried your own kind of quiet

into the middle of it all.

We laughed then—

said you’d love it next year,

that this was just the beginning,

that we’d come back again and again.

We didn’t know

that was your only parade.

Now the streets fill again,

the music returns,

the same joy echoes through the city—

but I can’t go back.

Not when every step

feels like walking through a moment

that ended too soon.

What once felt like celebration

now feels like standing in the shadow

of what should have been.

So I stay away—

not because it didn’t matter,

but because it mattered so much.

Still, I see you there—

my sweet girl,

wrapped in love and green and meaning,

holding the world on a clover,

while the world celebrated around you.

And maybe you didn’t miss a thing.

Maybe you felt it all

in the safest way—

held close,

at peace,

right where you were meant to be.

Your only parade

in a lifetime of love.

And though I cannot stand on those streets again,

I carry you with me—

in every quiet March,

in every piece of green,

in every ache that still whispers your name.

Always my girl.

Always my Erin.