“Do you know The Beatles?”
“No, I mean do you know of The Beatles, or do you actually know The Beatles?”
How was I supposed to answer that? How was I going to tell him that I hadn’t listened to a Beatles song since the funeral last winter? How was I supposed to explain that hearing a single chord was enough to send me into a depressive spiral?
“I know Rubber Soul.”
Correction- I know Rubber Soul by heart. I have the lyrics imprinted on my eyelids, and when I sleep I dream of flying birds and nowhere men. Two years ago, I spent the entirety of summer working my fingers raw against guitar strings, trying to master the strumming George Harrison so artfully played.
“Rubber Soul is the worst. What about the white album?”
The white album. The white album was the worst. The white album brought me nothing but tears and memories of biting snow. My dad didn’t think so, though. My dad thought the white album was a stroke of genius, so it fits that they would play “Blackbird” at the funeral. All your life…
“No. I haven’t heard it.”