My final connection to my departed spouse was the music I performed on my piano. But a nasty note left on my wall by ungrateful neighbors dashed that happiness. My granddaughter put things right after learning about it, leaving those conceited neighbors scratching their heads.
“Oh, Jerry, did you love it today, darling?” I inquired quietly, my fingers lifting from the ivory piano keys as the concluding notes of “Clair de Lune” filled my comfortable living room. I stared at the framed picture of Jerry, my late husband. His loving eyes appeared to sparkle in return, as they had done for more than half of our marriage.
My tabby cat, Willie, was curled up next to me and purred happily. I gingerly lifted Jerry’s portrait and felt the old sorrow in my chest as I reached down to scratch behind his ears.
“Darling, I miss you so much. Even though it has been five years, there are moments when it seems like yesterday.”
I gave the chilly glass a soft kiss and mumbled, “It’s dinnertime, my darling. Before you go to bed, I’ll play your favorite song. Like usual, Moon River.”
I could practically hear Jerry laughing warmly as I put the frame back down. He would say, “You spoil me, Bessie,” with wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
I padded over to the kitchen, stopping to glance back at the piano—my faithful friend for the last seventy-two years.
“What would I do without you?” As I ran my fingertips over its shiny surface, I whispered.
I said, “Goodnight, Jerry,” as I laid in bed that night and muttered into the night. “I’ll dream about you.”
I was engrossed in Chopin’s “Nocturne in E-flat major” the following morning when I was startled by a hard knock on my window. My fingers faltered, and the music abruptly stopped.
Through the glass, a man with a flushed face scowled at me. I had a new neighbor in him.
“Hey, lady!” he shouted, his voice muffled. “Cut out that racket! You’re keeping the whole neighborhood awake with your pathetic plinking!”
