I looked at Robert’s unfinished composition. At the notes he’d written with such care.
I placed the sheet on the stand and positioned my hands over the keys. And I started to play.
The first few notes were hesitant. My fingers didn’t remember at first. But then, slowly, they did.
Muscle memory from six decades ago came flooding back.
My fingers didn’t remember at first.
I played the melody Robert had written. It was beautiful. Tender. Loving. Full of longing.
When I reached the place where the music stopped, I paused. Then I kept playing. I let my hands find the notes Robert hadn’t had time to write.
I finished the melody. Added harmonies. Resolved the phrases. Made it complete. It took me over an hour.
When I played the final chord, I sat there for a long time with my hands still on the keys.
Then I noticed something on the piano. A small envelope tucked behind the music stand.
I played the melody Robert had written.
I opened it. Inside was a note:
“My darling Daisy,
I wanted to give you something you couldn’t refuse or argue about. Something that was 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 tucked under your arm. I loved you when you were 20 and when you were 80. I’ll love you forever.
