It's strange, this seeming love I have for a man who died before my first birthday. But it's part of my truth and I can't even begin to define it.

He was lionhearted - a bold hero of song and LSD, struck fast from a world who couldn't get enough of his strange lyric...what music would he be writing now?

And I even wonder sometimes - as I've come to know him a little better - what is it that is actually lovable about him - and would I feel the same if he hadn't been knocked down violently before he could completely change the world?

What I do know is this: I want to stand in Strawberry Fields some December 8th with snow on my face and the crisp air turning my breath white. I want to hold a candle and watch it dance upon the winter. I want to be with others who loved and love him. I want to cry - there among them - tears hot on my cheeks for no other reason than it sometimes feels like freedom to weep in company. I want to honor him in a way that says more than books on a shelf and the way a record spins. I want to stand where he stood and feel, just for a moment, like we really are giving peace a chance.