Horatio Street

Horatio street is barely what I would consider a street. It can't be more than 100 feet long, and it's location is buried in downtown New York City. I'm talking literal DOWN town, not in the heart of the city. Horatio street is profound to me in the sense that it houses the start of my life, my life of wondering, my life of observation, my life of people watching and fact collection, my life of art and literature, my life of city and surrounding, which I am not quite sure of the meaning, it's up for interpretation. In fact, it's not the street itself that I  drawn to, but a small park with a wrought iron fence and a fountain to match.
November 27, 2014, the Ayers' took a trip to NYC. This was our day to explore the city. Along with typical targets like Times Square and Rockerfeller Center were smaller, more local if you will, spots. Places like the Highline park, Chelsea Market, and the Strand bookstore. We took the subway to 14th street and continued walking down, braving the bitter cold and pretending we were happy. I turned to my brother and asked him if I might have a chance at owning the best ass below fourteenth street, to which I was met with a "not a chance, Marquez." I digress.
As we neared the old Chelsea meat packing area, my little eye caught sight of a small park with no activity in it. The world moved around it, but inside all motion was stopped. No birds moved, no birds were present, no water flowed from the fountain. I wanted to take a break from the rapid motion I had come to recognize as a city norm, and stepped inside. Nothing impressive happened, I came to no sudden epiphanies, but just for a moment, I was in my world alone, and I am definitely quoting Lorde on that one.
I guess I felt a connection to the park on Horatio Street, I must have if I picked it out of everywhere else. Maybe there was something spectacular and ingrained in me that happened.
Rewind the clock to 1997. Where were you? I was in my mothers womb. Where was she? Living in New York in an all girls residence on
13th street, pregnant with me. After returning from the November trip, she told me that the little Horatio Street park was her spot. She would go there and contemplate life, she would talk to me, she would people watch.
It was roughly the 17th anniversary of my conception, and I was brought straight to the place where I was "from*"
Maybe it was a reminder of human connection, of mother and daughter, of a space in a city that you call your own but was, is, and ever will be shared by so many people, just maybe not at the exact moments as you. Maybe it was a reminder of how even though the universe is immense, that people repeat patterns and are drawn to the same things, of how each perceives everything as different, of a reminder that life goes on outside of your mind, and you can't stay in it for too long.
Horatio Street is a reminder that everything will be ok. From November 1997, to July 1998, to November 2014 to February 2015, everything will work out for mother, for daughter, for father, for son, it will be good.
Thank you, Horatio Street.

*I am almost 100% certain I was not conceived IN the park