Somewhere on Penny Lane where blackbirds sing, I fell in love with him. I promised to be true, just as he asked, even though I was just 17 and not yet a paperback writer.
Now, in a vast concert hall where everyone was twisting and shouting, my best friend, Eleanor Rigby, began to scream.
“For cripe’s sake,” I yelled at her, my voice sucked into the void with thousands of other screamers. “We’re too old for this. Stop acting like a teenager.”
But Eleanor’s eyes gleamed, and by god, she looked exactly like a teen. “Paul,” she moaned. “In my life, it’s always only been you!”
Paul jammed on his guitar, which gently wept.
A hundred people surrounding me gently moaned.
Including my daughter, but she wasn’t into Paul McCartney’s concert like Eleanor and I were. “Mom, you and Aunt Ellie are embarrassing me,” she muttered. But she seemed to be only mouthing the words. The din sounded like we all lived in a yellow submarine crashing against oceanic waves.
But then she saw someone she recognized. A guy. Her age. “Hey, Jude!” She noticed how enthusiastically he was clapping along with Paul and his 5,000 fans. So, like everyone else in the indoor stadium, she waved her arms toward the heavens, back and forth, back and forth.
I eyed her suspiciously.
“Mom, really. All you need is love.”
We smiled, hugged, and screamed in symphonic joy.