Dear Mr. Lennon,

I was listening to your music the other day specifically the songs you helped write or wrote for the Beatles. They’re like pages from your diary, but rather than keeping them locked up and hidden you passed them out, like candy, to strangers on the street. Listening to your songs, I felt like I was one of those strangers. Like I was given a brief glimpse into your life and that fleeting glimpse awakened my tired senses.

I wish I could have been there in the sixties at one of your concerts to see you, Paul, Ringo, and George. I could have watched you lean in to the microphone, a feigned kiss as you began to sing. I could have seen Paul standing next to you, smiling, as he sang along. I would have witnessed George’s fingers move up and down, fast as lighting as he strummed, all the while hearing the steady beat of the drums provided by Ringo. I can imagine the blue sky and the light wind tugging at my hair, the chorus of screaming girls. I wouldn’t be one of those screaming girls. No, I wouldn’t have screamed, because then it would have been harder to listen.

I remember watching this documentary on your life. The thing I remember the most about it wasn’t your life. It was your death. It wasn’t the way you died, sudden, and violent. It was how after you died it seemed like the whole world cried. Your music and your ideas affected so many people, and I’m jealous of that. Not of the fame or the money but the effect you had on people. One single death, yours, brought thousands of strangers together. I bet all of them were holding a diary page.