This morning I was reminded by someone on the radio that John Lennon was killed 30 years ago today. (In fact, it will be 30 years ago tomorrow.)
30 years!
I was in a snowstorm in Kansas that night, digging a car out of a snowbank with friends. Someone stopped to help and told us he’d just heard John Lennon had been shot in Manhattan and was probably dead. What?
What were we going to do now?
We got the car out, then went to a party. I don’t think anyone had any fun.
In less than a year, I was in Paris.
Today, 30 years later, the snow was coming down on this side of the Atlantic, too.
Joyce had it right in « The Dead, » the snow general all over, « falling faintly through the universe. »
I remember it then and now, always, « upon all the living and the dead. »
Just like Layman Pang: « Beautiful snowflakes! They don’t fall in another place. »
Here, hear.
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