My father sits me down at the table
a deadly-serious look on his face.
He hands me a thin package,
a brown envelope
that looks older than I am.
I slide the item out of the paper,
and recognise the face immediately.
His hero and mine,
John Lennon.
Is this what I think it is?
A book of John Lennon’s poetry
from 1964.
He explains how he’s had
the book since the Sixties,
buying it as a teenager,
obsessed with the band,
and just as he’s passed
his love of the Beatles
on to me, he would
now like to pass on
this book, this artefact,
as treasured as
Shakespeare’s First Folio.
Are you happy? he asks,
as I flick carefully through the
sixty-year old pages,
lost for words.
I nod, smiling,
tears in my eyes.
His most treasured possession
has become mine.
My reason for valuing the
book as priceless
is different than his.
For me, the fact that my father
had the book for so long,
and is now handing it down to me,
gives it such significance.
For me, my father’s story is
the extra chapter,
the epilogue,
the missing last pages,
that the book was his,
that he has carried the volume
for over half a century.
I can’t find the words to
explain how special this is.
This book, for all these reasons,
should be handled with white gloves,
spoken over with hushed reverence,
and kept behind glass somewhere,
and so I’ll try to write a poem about it,
to try and capture just how much it means.
Perhaps sitting pen in hand,
trying to process it all,
maybe then the words will come,
and then,
maybe one day,
I’ll read it to him.