The Day I Went to Abbey Road

There are things in this world, places, where time stands still for a moment. When you're there, you don't blink, because your mind knows instinctively, inexplicably, to hold on for a second longer. 

Abbey Road, a Mecca to anyone who holds dear the ever-beloved memory of the late John & George, is one of those places.

At least, for me.

A musician from a family that defines itself by the music it sings, it plays, and it listens to, my memories are not of moments, but of music. 

My memories are of Jumpin' Jack Flash, at an illegal volume, blaring from the speakers of my father's truck, harmonized over his own overenthusiastic vocals, as we roll down the road and the wind whips at the open windows. 

My memories are of my mother and I spending a Saturday afternoon at home, her Harry Nilsson CD playing until we wore it out because I had to hear "...in 1941, a happy father had a son..." just one more time. 

My memories are of the warm sound of my Aunt's church piano. 

My memories are of my high school music teacher's eyes wide with pride and beads of sweat dotting his forehead like so many rain drops glistening on a window, as the band holds the last chord, which is never noise, as people imagine... but pure, perfect silence that follows.

My memories are sharing music with those I love, and have loved, among whom music becomes so, so precious.

I crossed Abbey Road today. I stood in Paul's spot. My family was watching on a webcam. 

You can imagine the album I'm listening to as I write this.