John Lennon Blue Plaid Memories
Twenty eight years ago today, John Lennon was murdered. I heard the news in the living room of our flat on Peralta Avenue in Bernal Heights (San Francisco). The living room had a teak laminate daybed-couch-combo piece of furniture and it was upholstered in blue plaid.
I remember sitting on the couch and crying when I heard the news. After some time had passed, I heard the front door open and knew it was my boyfriend, Jeb, coming home from work. I stood up and in slow motion staggered to the head of the stairs. He come up the stairs smiling and in a good mood as usual. When he say my face his entire demeanor changed and somehow I told him something, but I can't remember the words I used. Then we went into the living room and sat on the blue plaid and watched the images on the television.
To this day, every year on the anniversay of John Lennon's death, I think of that laminated couch with blue plaid fabric and all the emotions come rushing back. I haven't had any blue plaid in my life since.
I remember sitting on the couch and crying when I heard the news. After some time had passed, I heard the front door open and knew it was my boyfriend, Jeb, coming home from work. I stood up and in slow motion staggered to the head of the stairs. He come up the stairs smiling and in a good mood as usual. When he say my face his entire demeanor changed and somehow I told him something, but I can't remember the words I used. Then we went into the living room and sat on the blue plaid and watched the images on the television.
To this day, every year on the anniversay of John Lennon's death, I think of that laminated couch with blue plaid fabric and all the emotions come rushing back. I haven't had any blue plaid in my life since.
Labels: Death
posted by Karin Zirk at
9:46 AM
1 Comments:
Thank you for sharing this. I have a similarly vivid memory of where I was when the news of John Lennon's murder broke over the television on December 8, 1980. I was in the basement TV lounge of the Mennen Hall dorm at Cornell, sitting on an ancient, battered, brown Morris chair, drinking microwaved instant black coffee with too much sugar, having the usual late-night bull session with my buddies.
Everything stopped. It made no sense.
Twenty-three years later, my father died on December 9. He was a great admirer of John Lennon. He also endeavored to heal the soul of the world through his work as a psychiatrist. The calendar buried them next to each other.
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