Love was all he had

Last week, on the day John Lennon was killed exactly 25 years ago, a musician friend and I did a pilgrimage to The Dakota, the fortified apa...

Last week, on the day John Lennon was killed exactly 25 years ago, a musician friend and I did a pilgrimage to The Dakota, the fortified apartment building on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. I watched as Yoko Ono rushed out from the building, surrounded by bodyguards, police patrolmen, tourists, fans, and film crews. As she hurried across the street into Central Park, leaving behind her a wake of turned heads and digital cameras, someone yellled,”We love you, Yoko!” This seemed to please her beneath her large sunglasses.

A crowd had already gathered in Central Park near West 72nd Street. They were singing songs and huddling together for warmth around the circular mosiac with the word ‘Imagine’ in the middle, which marks the area of the park known as Strawberry Fields. The Mosaic had been decorated the previous day—with 16 sunflowers and 20 pink carnations assembled in the shape of a peace sign. On top of these, people had placed framed photographs, posters, postcards, flyers, flowers, beads and candles.

The shrine was smaller than I had expected, but more powerful than I had anticipated. After taking a few seconds to peek above woollen heads and shoulders to get another glimpse, I shuffled back into the sea of bodies. The sounds of the sing-along permeated me. I closed my eyes and saw a great blue flame ascending above the shrine, high into the sky, like an eternal beacon for those who dare to devote their lives to peace and love. It was fuelled by vapours of positive energy from the mob of mourners, worshippers and tourists.

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But when I opened my eyes, only a cold black branch remained where the flame had been. As I followed the flow of people away from the shrine, I passed those who were approaching it and saw their smiling faces. There was something happening there. A happening of remembrance and condolence but also a show of faces and bodies who were somehow moved by the boy from Liverpool. As I crossed the street and headed for the subway, they were singing, “Oh darling, if you leave me, I’ll never make it alone. Believe me when I tell you—Oooooh—I’ll never make it alone.”

The writer is a musician, working and living in New York City