I stand on the bridge and watch Lennon and Harry head south out of Manchester. Part of me wants to chase after them, tell him everything, go with them to Boston. Seeing Lennon like this— I can’t help but think back to a time when I imagined us together, all those images of love and life with him, knowing they were impossible, dreaming them anyway.
The sure sign of youth.
But I am no longer young. And so I offer a quiet goodbye, turn north—not because the Books say so, but because I say so—and take the first few steps of a walk I could do with my eyes closed.