I had one of those singular moments in life.
Traveling through the darkness to pluck my mother-in-law from the Pittsburgh Amtrak platform, I aspired to find my way without any difficulties. I had never ventured though the surprisingly cavernous maw of the Burgh and was decidedly underwhelmed whence I arrived at the station. Resembling much more of a Greyhound depot, the 'parking lot' was if someone from the Postal Service had designed it: a 75' by 75' spot under a trestle with steel girders planted every four feet, making it tough fit into spaces even when there was no traffic.
The station was depressingly bus depotesque. The "No loitering" signs seemed comical juxtaposed with the half-dozen lost souls sitting silently among the non-functional vending machines and inescapable television. Everything inside the place was either closed or neglected.
The train arrived on time and after a while, 'Momma' appeared — beaming — with piroshki and a thermos of tea in tow. I lead her directly from the depot, down the escalator and past the melange of passengers, apparently all of whom had de-trained The Pennsylvanian. The station had transformed into a cacaphony of phonies, and I made sure Momma and I did not dawdle amid the rabble. It was out the door and into a chaos of cars and vans, unable to unknot themselves from the rush of now-chilled exiters. We weaved our way to the Subaru and into the vehicle with bags we went.
And it was here, in the warmth and quiet of the car, nestled under the trestle that I stopped to share the piroshki Momma had made in New Jersey that morning.
We were in no hurry.
The crush of the traffic remained a frustration to those trying to hurry away. There I was with Momma, who speaks scant English. We sat and we ate piroshki, and let the world try to go bye. We knew that this moment was a singular one.
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