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.”
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