Watching Paul

He plays his guitar left-handed, brings back the day they played Shea,
the Fab Four, forty-four years ago. Then, they played over baseball speakers
at fans screaming so loud that nobody could hear the static or the band.
Now, he is a time machine, giving us a trip to the perfect moment sculpted
by a billion memories into the quintessence of pure joy. Today, the screamers
are parents and children and their children: they sway in ecstasy, all telescoped
to childhood by the music and the man; they are the ultimate air band, this is
the ultimate karaoke; they know every word, riff, chord, note and pause—
everybody plays along, sings along, dances along— transported to the place
the music rose from the ashes and transcended mortality. Finally, the last notes
of “Hey Jude” fade into the applause, the arms swaying to the sky are lowered
to carry sleepy children home to the place where memories are compartmentalized
along with joy and youth and aspiration, and hope is rare as watching Paul.