A fountain for York

York's fountain of love

What is it about fountains’ promise of incidental mist that draws York Restoration Corporation like ants to dryrotted wood? Relief? Cool, clean water? Maybe the ambient relaxation that comes from watching kids splash and New Yorkers’ faces transform from rictuses of low-level irritation or frustration into relative relaxation or even the occasional smile?

We forget so often how this city seems to add up on you, build up inside you like the radiation from a long-ago meltdown; our city’s Chernobyl never happened, but somehow happens every day.

York spent a good hour sitting, alternating reading an old book with unabashed looking. Watching. Staring out at the fountain and everyone who played in and around it. We occasionally stumble across these areas that stress forgot, where the over-exposed film of everyday life pulls back its harsh whites and grays and grants us a few moments of shade, a cooling mist, and the seemingly distant laughter of kids being kids. Far away, the city continued on without us.


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