Listening to John Lennon makes me feel my childhood in a very visceral way. It makes my body feel weekend trips to the lake, feel myself lying in bed at night unable to go to sleep until I reach the end of the Beatles tape I’m listening to… that one vivid memory I have of riding to the dentist with Mom behind the wheel of the van, and Lennon singing, nobody told me there’d be days like these. Strange days, indeed. Most peculiar, Mama.
I have only a memory of a memory of a memory of the day he died. My mom on the phone crying. Talking to my aunt Kathy. I wasn’t even at my peak personal Beatlemania yet when that happened. With as obsessed as I was, as a kid, with all things John, Paul, George, and Ringo, I know that part of that obsession was my wanting to love everything my mom loved.
I turn off the car, grab my bags. Cross the street in a rain so fine it’s like walking through a memory of rain.
There's a heaviness under my ribcage.
My childhood is so far away.
It’s strange to think that I am so much older than he would ever be.
Open the door to the office and walk down the hall to the time clock. Punch my numbers in, in the tiny rhythm I always do.
Shave and a haircut. Two bits.