26 December 2015

New York ~ our city of dreams

I don't know if my writing skills will ever convey what I feel about New York.
walk around the city and I just think, "I'm in New York City." I waste my time thinking just that. It's on repeat in my head.
The noise on the street, the muffled sound in Grand Central, the crisp winter air, the rain, the wind, the car horns, the smell of coffee and pretzels, the crowds, the steam rising from manholes, the helping hand held down to you as you wobbled on the ice rink, the magazine seller wishing passers by "happy holidays" and the Salvation Army, dancing with hand bells singing Jingle Bells gospel style. That's my New York. Iconic, extraordinary, anonymous, yet familiar. A human city. A mash of overlaying cultures coming together to create a unique thing. That thing is part of me and I hope that it has carved a little dent in your soul. 
Experiencing New York with your little hand in mine is something that I will treasure for ever. Watching you take it all in, I felt so blessed. You said "wow!" You shouted "look up Mummy!" You squealed with excitement every time you turned a corner. You pressed your face up to the window of Bergforf Goodman and delighted in the fact that they had used your favourite colour in their Christmas window.
You fell over on the ice rink and cried. Then you asked to go back out again. Then you shouted, "I'm doing it Mummy" as we shuffled our way around the rink. I welled up with happy tears when you said that you were proud of yourself. I am so pleased that you tried again sweetheart. A memory to treasure. 
You are only 5 and probably won't remember our trip. That's why I am writing you this letter. I want you to remember. You will go back. And you will piece together your experiences, your memories, our memories, our stories and our pictures. You will create your own jigsaw of New York. And I just know that you will love it too. 

Sweet dreams baby x

I love New York, even though it isn’t mine, the way something has to be, a tree or a street or a house, something, anyway, that belongs to me because I belong to it ~ Truman Capote