RiffDraft

Two years ago, I was in NYC visiting a friend. She worked a few blocks away from Central Park and while she worked, I walked over. It was right before Thanksgiving and the perfect time to be there. As I looked at all the buildings bordering the Park, I couldn’t stop wondering, “Which one is the Dakota?” That’s all I cared about.

I’ve always associated Central Park and NYC, with John Lennon. Lennon loved the city and lived there (in the Dakota building outside of Central Park) for most of the last 10 years of his life, until he was shot down, outside his building, 27 years ago today.

As I walked around the Park, I had a naive sense that I could spot the Dakota out of the endless lineup of buildings bordering the park. I couldn’t.

The next day, I brought my friend along and we found it. I stood outside the building and innocently asked the doorman, “Which one of the apartments was Lennon’s?” I was curious.

He said, “I am not permitted to say. His wife still lives here.”

The doorman’s words, his wife still lives here, made everything so real, so present tense, that I felt uneasy, like I was intruding on something private. Even more upsetting, I realized I was standing in the place where he was shot. This was too much. We backed away and retreated across the street to Central Park, where they have a garden named in his honor.

I stood there and had my friend take a picture of me. For some reason, I wanted it to be perfect. I had her take the same shot half a dozen times. Looking at me quizzically, she indulged and we got one that I felt good about…