Naked at the Battery

Bank holiday and mild sunshine, and the Hudson river park is instantly an ant trail of people walking, running, biking, milling. I stare straight into the sun and try to ignore them, realizing again why I love the night. I hate to share the city, to share my experiencing it, unable to coexist without getting swept up in the collective.

But as I reached Battery Park, the sun was quickly reaching our horizon, and the oncoming chill brought people back to their individual homes, their delivery menus and Monday night games. I sat at the southern tip of Manhattan and watched the sun set, oblivious to the last trickle of traffic around me. Here is where New York began. On this modest, green tip of an iceberg. We all have to start somewhere.

I saw a picture today of my grandmother, young and naked, gazing across the sea. While she was alive, she would not have wanted for us to see it, but how glad I am to have been allowed it now. Somewhere in her strong back and pale uncovered skin, I saw myself, and I hadn't known before. In this woman whom I barely knew, somewhere, is my story.

My other grandmother had remarked to my mother how much like her sister I was, this kind spinster with the thick glasses who lived contentedly with the indigenous people up north and died well before her time. I've suspected it earlier, have been surprised no one's mentioned it. I did not know her, either, and I only see the image I have painted of her but it seems a lonely endeavor. Perhaps that is why we do not talk about it; we do not like to build our futures on the sad stories.

I walked quickly home past skyscrapers in that magical New York dusk. We all start somewhere. But there is building left to be done.