I began to sit by the fountain. Sometimes when the weather was pleasant and the sun was shining, other times when it was damp and grim out, when the cold, wet steel of the rained-on benches would stick uncomfortably against my leg.

The fountain was a gift. A gift from royalty, no less: a king or prince from some faraway land across the seas, an obscure monarch who now lives on through the benevolent smiles of the golden angels that sit at the foot of the fountain. There are four of these angels, each paired with seated figures: women with free-flowing, intricate hair, with forms reminiscent of mermaids and faces that look lifted from buried Roman cities.

I learned from a nearby placard that the fountain was, in fact, moved to its current location. I remember being impressed. How does one move a fountain? I imagined dozens of people, each of them with two hands under the fountain, attempting desperately to lift it. The idea of movement – of a fountain, or of the water that lives within it – became a central fascination of mine. Over the course of several weeks the fountain became both a physical and a metaphorical anchor in my life. I get a little emotional just thinking about it. Let me explain.


One day in early spring, just as the blossom trees were beginning to turn a luscious pink, I arrived in the park to find a police cordon in place. Yellow tape was spun aggressively along the blossom trees, as if by ...