Mother's Day

The family unit took a trip over the river and through the hood to have breakfast at the railside diner. It's an Edward Hooper-esque eatery with big plate glass windows behind the hanger factory on the other side of the tracks. The diner has a counter with chrome and Naugahyde stools that separates clusters of low-backed booths and has a devoted clientele.
The smokers congregate on one side, the non-smokers on other. Smoking is no longer allowed, but the groups still maintain their distance.

An elderly woman in a walker shuffled slowly into the smoker's side, while her husband straggled in with her portable oxygen tank. A neatly dressed couple said prayers over their French toast while a biker dude in a sweaty T-shirt and a blue do-rag snorted at a joke.
Number One Son had the usual: a chocolate chip pancake. Mom was in a festive mood. She had the Monte Christo. I had the American Classic:a cheese omlette with hot dog slices. It was the name that got to me. I couldn't resist. But I wouldn't recommend it.

A train lumbered by dragging hoppers of coal north to the power plant.