Not Fade Away: The Day Music Died

Lonesome Tears

February 4th, 1959
5:38 p.m
Paul's POV
 

Silently, the three of us trudged through the soft grass and crackly leaves of the local cemetery, trying not to shiver too much from the freezing cold. The wind was blowing in our faces and our noses were turning to ice, but we kept on, determined by the loss of our hero to keep going. At that moment, we must've looked like copies of ghosts ourselves, the three of us walking in a line, with John at the head, me in the middle, and George at the end, all dressed in black and carrying a guitar case each, with solemn faces and sad expressions. I myself wouldn't have been surprised if we suddenly turned into ghosts; that was how lifeless we felt. It was just a nothing day, when we weren't exactly sure how to feel, much less what to do with ourselves. And this is what came out of it. Three dark-haired ghosts walking through a graveyard, freezing their faces off. 

The very moment that school had let out, John, George and I immediately set out to the graveyard, feeling as numb after the long day at school, where all we could think of was what had happened last night. Especially John, who seemed pretty rattled, although it was clear that all of us were upset by this. None of us tried to speak, either for fear of disturbing the peace, or just not having anything to say.

"Hey." spoke up John in a raspy voice, breaking the silence. "Let's stop here, shall we?" We nodded, and set our cases and bookbags down carefully on the dirt and leaf filled floor, quietly as if we were disturbing the dead. It seemed as though at any moment, a dead zombie hand would come reaching out of the ground, trying to murder us. Uncomfortable, I tried to focus on the actual gravestones rather than what lied beneath. I glanced for a couple of seconds at each of the names on the etched on the molding stones just to see if there was any particular reason as to why John had wanted to stop here in this space, and that was when I saw it, right behind where John was sitting. Julia Stanley Lennon. 15th of July 1958. 

This had happened not even a year ago. No doubt he knew why he chose this place, especially because he was purposely facing the other way, sitting right in front of it. He didn't want to look at it directly, but he knew that it was there behind him. I quickly changed my line of vision so it would look like I had been looking behind the gravestone, not at it, in case he was to look at me. I don't know why, but it just seemed like it would be rude if I was staring at his mothers gravestone. Like I wouldn't like it if he was staring at my mothers gravestone. I guess that it was like an unspoken rule about the deceased that anyone who's lost someone before understood. I looked over at George to see if he caught on what I had just seen and he turned back to look at me too, giving a small nod in confirmation. George was a pretty smart kid. 

"So what's the plan?" I asked John. I didn't bother to look up at him, or even George for that matter, so instead I occupied myself with grabbing fistfuls of leaves and grass, and tearing them apart with my hands, a habit I've had since I was young. John shrugged and looked down as well. 

"I dunno, I know we said that we were going to practice here, but... I dunno, I feel like it wouldn't be right. Not today at least. I feel like it'd be rude." He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against Julia's gravestone, as if she were actually there and he was resting against her. "We can practice at Georgie's house." I nodded in understanding at his words, knowing what he meant about how practicing here would feel like it was disrespectful. Maybe it was the fact that we were surrounded by dead long-forgotten people, or maybe the fact that the weather was chilling to the bone, but it just didn't seem fitting to the situation. It's kind of like that unspoken rule of how you're not supposed to speak or be happy at a funeral. 

I've always hated funerals, just like everyone else, but my first one was a pretty traumatizing one. I mean, that's obviously to be expected when it's your own mothers funeral. It was three years ago, when I was fourteen. I didn't know what to think about it then, and I sure as heck don't know what to think about it now. These days, the whole event is just a blur, because I tried not to think about it as much as possible, but sometimes when I'm alone, I suddenly remember random bits and pieces like my uncle speaking about how they used to play with each other when they were kids, or a baby crying during the eulogy. Stuff like that. I remember being dressed in an uncomfortable suit and Mike getting angry over the fact that he had to wear my old dress shoes. He was twelve then, too old to be raising a fuss over something as trivial as shoes. My dad didn't say anything, so I told Mike to shut up, although I knew that he was really crying because he wanted an excuse to.