That Summer

I had a job down the shore as a mother’s helper for our neighbors across the street with three children. I lived with them for a month in a cottage by the sea. That summer I taught myself to strum notes on the guitar following diagrams in a book, caught crabs, collected shells, and enjoyed countless hours of beach time in my two-piece pink and white checked bathing suit. Back at home, I’m amazed when asked to join the family for a concert in downtown Philadelphia at the old Convention Center. The Beatles were coming to town! The walls of my bedroom had been lined with posters of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. John was my favorite. Ed Sullivan introduced them on a Sunday night, dark hair falling across their foreheads. The day of the sold-out show arrives. Our seats are up front. Electricity crackles in the air. The Beatles play their guitars, Ringo hits the drums, and they move their hips and lips. I will forever remember the continuous screaming of the audience. I scream, too. But who can actually hear what songs are they singing?