Ever since my mom called on Friday afternoon with the news, The Beatles’ “Let it Be” has been playing on repeat in my head.
“Let it Be” has never been a particular favorite of mine. I tend to like the more happy, poppy Beatles rather than the melancholy, soaked with meaning Beatles. I’m more “I Want to Hold Your Hand” than “I am the Walrus.”
Usually in times of great fear and turmoil, my internal jukebox turns to “Confetti” by The Lemonheads. I could never explain why that song, it just works. The lyrics aren’t particularly comforting or even, well, meaningful.
But on Friday, when the test results weren’t in our favor my brain clamped onto “Let it Be” and has not let go. I think the Catholicism of my youth has flared up through the grey matter and latched onto something that I can accept on an intellectual level. I have very definite beliefs about Lennon & McCartney, Jesus & Mary I’m not so sure about. But you know, we Catholics dig on Mary. And here I am in an hour of darkness and Paul McCartney’s comforting me. It’s weird.
I’m being purposefully oblique here. I don’t feel comfortable explaining in any kind of depth what is going on. The specifics don’t matter, I suppose. My mom is sick and I am scared. That’s about all I’m comfortable sharing right now.