In the final days of December 1980, a heavy silence still lingered outside the Dakota building in New York City. The entrance of the iconic residence had become a memorial site, filled with flowers, candles, handwritten notes, and Beatles memorabilia left by grieving fans. It was there, on a cold winter morning, that Paul McCartney quietly arrived, seeking a moment of personal closure.
With his collar turned up, sunglasses hiding his eyes, and his head lowered, McCartney stepped onto West 72nd Street, careful not to draw attention. It wasn’t a media event or a public gesture meant for cameras. A few people nearby recognized him, whispering to each other, “That’s McCartney.” But Paul gave no interviews, no statements—just a solemn nod before moving slowly toward the place where his friend and former bandmate, John Lennon, had been killed just three weeks earlier.
At first, Paul didn’t approach the gates of the Dakota directly. He stood across the street, quietly observing the crowd that had gathered there daily since Lennon’s death on December 8th. When he finally crossed over, he placed a single red rose at the site and stood silently for several minutes. Later, in a conversation with photographer Bob Gruen, Paul shared the surreal weight of that moment. “It was like being in a dream. I kept thinking, ‘That’s where he walked through for the last time.’ I wasn’t ready for how real it would feel.”
Paul’s visit to New York wasn’t publicly announced, nor was it planned strictly for a memorial. He had come primarily to meet privately with Yoko Ono. The next day, he visited her apartment inside the Dakota, where she welcomed him with a mix of exhaustion and strength. The two spoke behind closed doors for nearly two hours. Though Paul never shared the full details of that conversation, those close to him said he wept quietly afterward during the car ride home.
Ringo Starr had visited Yoko and Lennon’s son, Sean, just days after the tragedy. George Harrison sent his condolences through mutual friends. But Paul’s visit carried a different weight. His contact with John had been limited in the years leading up to Lennon’s death. Their final phone call had focused more on family than music—a fact that haunted McCartney. In a private 1981 interview with journalist Ray Connolly, Paul admitted, “We always thought there would be more time. That’s what hurts—you always think there’s time.”
After Lennon’s death, Paul struggled with sleepless nights, often wandering the house and sifting through old photographs. Linda McCartney later recalled him spending long hours alone in the studio, playing the piano—not rehearsing, not recording, just playing, as if speaking to John in silence.
In 1982, McCartney released Here Today, a deeply personal tribute to Lennon on his album Tug of War. The song’s emotional lyrics captured a side of their friendship rarely seen by the public. Decades later, when performing it live, Paul would often close his eyes, sometimes wiping away tears.
For McCartney, grief was never about grand gestures—it was about quiet moments of remembrance. Even now, when he passes the Dakota, Paul says he doesn’t see the building. He still sees John.