“Today I tried to play a simple scale and my fingers felt like they belonged to someone else. This is harder than I thought.”
“I want to give her back the dream she gave up for our family.”
About his frustrations.
“I’ve been at this for six months and I still can’t play a simple melody without mistakes. Maybe I’m too old to learn.”
About his determination:
“I’m not giving up. Daisy never gave up on me. I won’t give up on this.”
About his progress:
“Today I played ‘Clair de Lune’ all the way through. It wasn’t perfect, but it was recognizable. I recorded it for her.”
“Daisy never gave up on me.”
I turned the page. The entries got shorter near the end.
“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.”
“I hated lying to her.”
The last entry was dated a week before he died: “I’m out of time. I’m sorry, my love. I couldn’t finish.”
I closed the journal and looked at the piano. On the music stand was a piece of sheet music. Handwritten in Robert’s cursive script.
The title at the top read: “For My Daisy.”
I picked it up. The music was beautiful. Complex. And carefully notated.
But it stopped halfway through the second page.
The rest was blank. He’d run out of time.
It stopped halfway through the second page.
I sat down on the piano bench. It creaked softly beneath me, and a thin ribbon of sunlight through the window caught the dust in the air.
My fingers hovered over the keys.
