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It’s not just a silver anniversary. It’s a silver-haired anniversary, a flashback, a trip, a reminder of the time our youth parted ways with us, a marker in a handful of days in a gallery of "where were you when?"

I remember.

We ground the yellow leaves into billowing dust in the procession at what used to be called Randolph Park, a procession that began at the band shell, that spontaneously journeyed into the surrounding grounds, golden dust hovering over us like a veil, his music calling to us from somewhere else in the park, easily heard, painfully remembered, words that we sang as we slowly marched, aimlessly it seemed, lost in the golden circles, strangers and friends, media and cops watching us, hurting with us, even the cops, a peaceful and impromptu march that led nowhere really, a procession with no direction and no destination, more like a dance than a procession, choreographed with loss and grief, as his lyrics echoed around us like an angel’s.

I ran into Michelle, one of Kris’ students, probably ditching school to be there, Michelle who ran into my arms and cried out, "Mike, John is dead," who marched with me on that day in the park so long ago in time, so recent in memory, as we joined the others and circled, trying to make sense of it, trying to deal with it, wondering why it happened.

I called Layne as soon I could after I had heard the news and asked how he was. We all asked each other that, how are you doing, what do you feel, why did it happen, what does it mean, is it over, I mean, is it really over? He said that he heard the news while driving, as I had, and he said he was okay until the radio station, which played nothing but John’s music for twenty-four hours, maybe more, played "Happy Christmas War Is Over." That’s when Layne had to pull over, unable to drive, weeping, broken, lost like the rest of us. It was such a hopeful song, written when the war had finally ended, "War is over, over if you want it war is over now...

We imagined that war was over, that the human race could find its way around the planet, and each other, without starting wars, that we could give peace a chance, that there was a way out, an escape from the storms of war, religion, government, possessions, greed, jealousy, that we could live in the world we dreamt about, a world that would be safe for everybody. And so this is Christmas, he sang, for weak and for strong, for rich and the poor ones, the world is so wrong, and so happy Christmas, for black and for white, for yellow and red ones, let's stop all the fight.

He challenged us to imagine existing with no heaven, no hell, no countries, no religion, no possessions, without all those things that we were told we had to "kill or die for," an existence with "no need for greed or hunger." "You may say I’m a dreamer," he sang to us, adding, "but I’m not the only one."

He was not the only one. We shared his dream, those of us in that sad, dusty, golden procession who marched aimlessly to his music, we allowed ourselves to imagine what he imagined, we tried to see what he could see, and we drank from the nectar of his dream and choked on the golden dust in a sad city park on a grey day in December.

We dreamt of light but inherited darkness. Wars were fought, prisons overflowed, more poisons filled our waters and atmosphere than ever before and religion became a template for tyranny. Dreamers went underground. Pacifism was ridiculed by the war-mongers and their minions and the world he imagined seeped away like a desert stream. We decided to place our dreams on hold, most of us, focusing on jobs, investments, security. The war-mongers sold us security because they had no dreams to sell. They had no imagination.

John has been dead for twenty-five years. Layne has been dead for eleven years. We lost track of Michelle many years ago. They only exist in memory now, but I can see them walking in a dusty, golden haze, much like the veil that hovered over us in Randolph Park so many years ago.

This is how I will honor John’s memory: Before I go to bed tonight, I will take a moment to look at myself in the mirror, and I will ask my aged reflection a very simple question:

Can you still imagine?

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