It was one of the first genuinely cold days in New York. My friend and I had walked from our hotel in midtown Manhattan down the length of Central Park to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, then had dinner in an Italian restaurant. The room was filled with diners—many of whom already knew each other well. It was the kind of neighborhood gathering-place one might just as easily have found in a small town in the midwestern United States, or in the south of France.
On our way back, just a few blocks from our hotel, we came upon Saint Patrick's Cathedral, its huge doors still decked with the blue and black bunting of mourning from the events of September 11. Quietly, we slipped in, and sat down to pray. After a few minutes, I went over to a chapel with a little sign that said "NYPD" and lit a candle in honor of these heroes.
Then, as I headed for the door, a young fireman came down the aisle, his hat in his hand, his head bowed. Our eyes met. We smiled. That wordless moment—occurring as it did in an attitude of prayer—served to unite us immediately.
