He had decided to learn the piano in secret.
The pages told of his clumsy beginnings, his stiff fingers, his doubts. He had taken lessons and trained for years.
“Camille never gave up for our family. I will not give up for her. »
Further on, the sentences became shorter.
“The doctor says that time is running out. I have to finish one last work. »
On the lectern, a handwritten score: “Pour ma marguerite”. An unfinished composition.
The interrupted melody
I sat down at the piano.
My hands hesitated, then the reflexes of the past returned. I played its melody, tender and luminous.
Where the score stopped, I continued, letting my fingers find the notes he hadn’t written.
When I finished, I was crying.
Behind the lectern, a last letter.
He offered me the piano and the studio. He asked me to play again, writing that he would always be there, in every note.
For decades, he had given me flowers.
But in reality, he was preparing something much bigger: to give me back the dream I had put aside to build our life.
Today
I go to the studio twice a week.
Sometimes I play. Sometimes I listen to his recordings.
Last week, I recorded a track for the first time in sixty years. I called it “For John.”
My fingers aren’t as fast anymore. The grades are not perfect.
But they are full of love.
For 63 years, he gave me flowers.
And even after he left, he gave me the strength to believe in my dreams and eternal love again, beyond Valentine’s Day.
Leave a Comment