Broken Words - Paul McCartney, John Lennon

The Journey

Paul was spiraling, falling. It was sweet, beautiful, in a strange way, as it had happened the instant his feet crossed over the threshold of the hospital and out into the free, open air. 'Least, he thought it was air. It was something and everything all at once: he could see a white vision that blurred into darkness. All he could do was float in this nothingness and listen to the noise of the city - all of it at once. Invisible cars seemed to whizz by, for he could hear frightening horns and the squeal of tires without a source of noise. He did not bother to dodge the cars - for he could not see them - but Paul still winced. He could hear someone crying, weeping, and he was confused for, yet again, there was no source. Just the sound of an invisible person crying and the sound of invisible cars going by and by, neither stopping for him. He didn't need them to. All he had to do was wait and wait until the falling spiral ended. Until he ended.

The thought confused him, but he still had to smile. The fall had ended, whatever it had been. Paul was on the cold, gray pavement, face leaning gently in a careful manner against the stone. "Lovely, just lovely." But a quickly muttered, sarcastic statement would not get him to the Dakota. Only his legs would do that. So, once he had stood up, they did.

Paul was certain the walk would be long, though not the longest he had taken. His face was a blank expression of solemnly grief, a mask he had only begun to wear. He was not used to it, and probably never would be. He was fine with that. How ever long he would wear the mask, he would. Reluctantly, he would, because he was afraid of it as much as he was fine. Perhaps, this showing of grief was a sign he was mourning John. Well, he jolly well should have; John was his best mate. Had been. And he loved John. Always had. Mourning was a mere expression of the very thing. Paul knew that, but he could not help but wonder why the feeling had overtaken him at this very moment.

The answer came to him within a few minutes of walking: he was heading to the building where John had died. He was walking, feet shifting over the smooth grounds that led to the final destination of his friend. He was grieving because he should have. He knew it would have happened sometime. It only made simple sense that it had to be when he was on the journey to the apartment, footsteps following in his friend's demise.

There was no rain falling. It had already grieved of its own. Everyone already had, he was certain. Paul was late, and he hated himself for it. He felt to be late to the arrival of grief and late to the hotel. Had he not planned to go to the Dakota as soon as he had arrived in New York? Hadn't the phone call to Heather spoken of his subconscious plans to see where John had been shot? He had thought it to be true, even as he was uncertain of the very thing.

Still, as he walked at a brisk pace, Paul thought words he knew he never would have thought before John Lennon's death. Words that had always been there, but he had only just noticed them. Words he knew would, somehow, by a farewell. But a farewell of what, he did not know.

Linda, Linda, I heard someone crying not a while ago. I know it was you, love. I know it to be true. Were you crying over me? I know you were. I do not know what you were crying over, exactly, as I have no memory of being in any sort of coma, but I am certain that is what everybody says. Nevertheless, I love you, so dearly, so much. I know we are apart, but I also know we are not. You are always with me, beautiful, sweet Linda. You never truly leave. I know that with a little luck, we will be united again, be together and safe. I don't mind if the word around us is in flames. I don't mind if this land our feet stand on crumble and break. I just want you near me, but you are not. And, yet, you are. A part of me is with you, as a part of you is with me. I have loved you always. You may not be amazed by that fact anymore, but it's true. I love you, and I know you love me, too. Words cannot describe what I feel when I am with you. Love and amazement are the closest, but what we feel for one another is something indescribable. I do know I love you. I've said it many, many times, and I never will stop. Linda, I love you, you know. I love you.

He had to stop. Either grief had caught up with him or the emotions of letting his heart out had gotten the best of him. He was weeping. He missed Linda; he missed the children, too, and could not imagine why any of them was not with him in the sacred place, as his feet led him to the place he had both been dreading and expecting, ever since that morning when he had glanced over the paper to read the tragic headline declaring John Lennon had been shot and was dead.

Paul could hardly make out the building when he approached it. His vision blurred. Shaking hands reached up to reach to the gates. He opened them and stepped inside. Whether he was ready or not, he had arrived at the Dakota.