“Today I played ‘Clair de Lune’ all the way through. It wasn’t perfect, but it was recognizable. I recorded it for her.”
Near the end, the entries grew shorter: “The doctor says my heart is giving out. I don’t have much time. But I need to finish one more piece.”
“Daisy asked me yesterday why I’ve been gone so much. I told her I was visiting old friends. I hated lying to her. But I can’t tell her yet. Not until it’s finished.”
“My hands shake now when I play. But I keep practicing. For her.”
“This will be my last composition. I’m writing it myself. For her. I want it to be perfect. She deserves perfection.”
The final entry, a week before he died: “I’m out of time. I’m sorry, my love. I couldn’t finish.”
On the piano stand lay a handwritten sheet titled “For My Daisy.” The music was beautiful but unfinished, stopping halfway through the second page.
I sat at the piano, placed the sheet on the stand, and began to play. At first my fingers hesitated, but muscle memory from six decades ago returned. I played Robert’s melody—tender, loving, full of longing.
When I reached the blank section, I kept going, letting my hands find the notes he hadn’t written. I finished the piece, adding harmonies and resolutions.
When I ended, I noticed a small envelope tucked behind the stand. Inside was Robert’s final letter:
“My darling Daisy, I wanted to give you something you couldn’t refuse or argue about. Something just for you. This piano is yours now. This studio is yours. Play again, my love. And know that even though I’m gone, I’m still here—in every note, in every chord, in every song. I loved you from the moment I saw you in that college library with sheet music under your arm. I loved you when you were 20 and when you were 80. I’ll love you forever. Always yours, Robert.”
Now I visit the studio twice a week. Sometimes I play, sometimes I listen to his recordings. My daughter came once, and I played one of Robert’s recordings for her. My fingers stumbled, the tempo wasn’t perfect, but it was full of love. She cried when she heard it.
Last week, I recorded my first piece in 60 years. My hands aren’t nimble anymore, and I made mistakes, but I finished. I labeled it “For Robert” and placed it on the shelf beside his. Now we’re together again—in the only way that matters.
For 63 years, he gave me flowers. And from beyond, he gave me back the dream I thought I had lost.
