Hello there!
Welcome to WEP's Year of Music. First group/song to be featured is the Beatles and their iconic song, All You Need is Love.
For this challenge, I take you on a trip to Liverpool, the home of the Beatles. I've always loved park benches, so I imagined myself sitting on a park bench admiring the Beatles' statue on the waterfront. Park benches are under-rated. They can be great places to sit and dream and watch people living their lives.
Trigger warning: This #flashfiction contains drug taking. Given the subject matter, sorta has to, don't you think?
Learning how to be you.
I stumble around
the deserted waterfront at Pier Head, numb.
It seems wrong that
the sun is shining this morning. This is Liverpool, after all. The sun rarely
shines. A bleak day would be more fitting, but today the sun bores into my
eyes, casts shadows on the cement. Casts shadows on my soul.
I pause a step. Stand at the edge of the pier where the murky River Mersey slaps waves onto the pylons. The ferries bob, tethered, waiting for a time when they'll run again.
The sun embraces me. Offers comfort and warmth. I won’t give in to the
grief ballooning in my chest. It’s quiet here on the pier. Peaceful. But my
legs are shaky. I slow-walk to the bench in front of my favorite four local
boys made good.
An hour ago it must
have rained, because the bronze statues are slick and shiny. I feel like the Fab Four are out for a casual stroll, walking toward me, hope on their faces. Stillness steals over me,
eating away at the paralysing shock of arriving at the hospital this morning to
be told the worst news.
A flock of tourists
vomits out of a huge bus slathered in peace signs and bright flowers and other
sixties’ symbols. I’m about to be engulfed in a tidal wave. A burst of humanity
surges toward me – vibrant, alive, optimistic – like the Beatles at the top of
their game. I feel like a little fish swimming against the torrent, struggling
to stay afloat, gasping for breath.
Lennox is dead.
Why is a busload of
tourists belching toward me like a chattering of choughs?
Lennox is dead.
Why aren’t they at home,
taking the pandemic seriously. Haven’t enough people died already?
Lennox is dead.
No guesses where these
bright birds are heading.
The Beatles statue.
A landmark.
My city’s must-see piece of art.
The birds land. I am swamped by
humanity. Surrounded. Overwhelmed. Overcome.
Cameras click, flower-holding fans in sixties’ psychedelic coats with peace symbols on the back, jeans, boots,
Carnaby Street caps. They pose, arms around the Fab Four, kiss them, pay homage as only died-in-the-wool Beatles’ fans know how. To make it worse, they’re
murdering my favorite Beatles’ song, All You Need is Love, making a game of it.
Every time someone warbles the chorus, heads pop up from behind the boys, shouting,
‘love!’ ‘Love!’ ‘Love is all you need!’ All you need be damned.
I don’t know how I manage
it, but I drift. Sleep. Dream of that dreary hospital room with its dreary
view. Where Lennox breathed his last in a room full of impersonal machines, tended
by angels in blue head-to-toe PPE gear, shields, goggles, the whole shebang.
The smell wakes me.
Earthy. Herby. Sweet.
I’ve never taken
drugs, unlike the Beatles with their field trips to India to sit at the feet of
the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi to study spirituality. In the statue in front of me, George’s
belt has been engraved with a mantra revealing his deep interest in Indian
spirituality. It was especially important to him, more than the sitar playing
he toyed with.
I love the sitar in
Norwegian Wood. I’ve nothing against Love You To from their 1966 album
Revolver. George wrote and sung it and it features Indian instrumentation such
as sitar and tabla. A digression from their usual sound.
That smell. I recognize
marijuana from the hours I spent at Lennox’s bedside in the early stages of the
illness before he went to hospital.
My heartbeat speeds
up. Someone daring is sitting beside me. The tourists have gone. I squint my
eyes. Not a beanie-clad, tousled haired, grubby person, but someone who
embodies sophistication and privilege. His hair is blond, brushes his shoulders,
unlike the Beatles with their black mop tops. From under his bangs, the pot
smoker studies the foursome, a smile quirking his lips.
I sat holding
Lennox’s hand while he smoked, but that was different. That was to alleviate
the pain, to make the end more bearable. Medicinal cannabis. Which this is not.
I’m rooted to the
spot. Wondering what will happen next.
The sunshine, the
sweetness, the sexy smile.
He hands me the
joint like we’re old friends at a party. He raises his eyebrows, interested, waiting
to see what I’ll do.
I’m a stickler for doing the right thing. But what is the right thing here?
I take it.
First time ever I’ve
smoked, but I do it for Lennox, somehow brings him closer.
I’m suddenly a
woman who tries new things. Who knew that about me? Not me.
Nothing you can do,
but you can learn how to be you in time
It's easy…
It hasn’t been easy.
My life has
revolved around caring for my brother, Lennox, and before him, my elderly
parents who succumbed in the first wave of the virus.
No one you can save
that can't be saved
I hate that.
The smoke passes
down my throat. Wraps around my lungs. Chokes me.
The tension pours
from my pores.
He smiles but I see
the sadness in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Karla. I’m here for you. Always.’
I take another drag.
The air is warm, cloying. The sun seems brighter. Brilliant.
He stretches out his
hand. I take it. He pulls me to my feet. Wraps his arm around my shoulders.
I’ve been running
away from things all my life.
Now I’m running
forward. With the love of my life, Johan.
Lyrics pound
through my head:
There's nowhere you
can be that isn't where you're meant to be
It's easy.
Will it be easy
this time?
