There’s a man down the street who was born and raised in Tamborín. For generations his family has grown tobacco and rolled cigars. He sells those here. Across the street and two blocks down, another guy sells miniature bottles of J&B, three for five. That’s oK. It’s fall and they fit just fine in the jacket pocket. A couple more blocks of Broadway gently sloping down and I arrive at the park.

The cigar is already lit and my index is drumming the cap of one of the bottles. I want to find the bench where I usually sit with my boys. I want to hear their laughter and linger on the memory of their faces. Then I remember that there is no smoking in parks in Nueva York.

I circle back and find a bench outside. A car with the windows rolled down is playing bachata loud enough for the whole neighborhood to party. They stop at the traffic light. The driver and three passengers are clapping their hands in the air and singing the words to the song.

It reminds me of the day we left the hospital with the babies, nervous and excited to bring them home. Bachata was in the air that day as well. It’s the anthem of the streets where they were born. I laugh and I can hear the boys laughing with me, together at last.