The music I played on my piano was my last connection to my late husband, but cruel neighbors tried to shatter that joy with their hurtful actions. When my granddaughter found out, she was determined to make things right, leaving those neighbors stunned.
“Oh, Jerry, did you enjoy that, darling?” I whispered as the final notes of “Clair de Lune” echoed through the cozy living room. My fingers lifted from the piano keys, and I looked at the framed photo of my late husband. His warm eyes sparkled, just as they had during our fifty years together.
Willie, my tabby, purred contentedly at my feet. I bent down to scratch behind his ears, feeling that familiar ache in my chest. “I miss you so much,” I murmured to Jerry’s photo. “It’s been five years, but some days… it feels like just yesterday.”
I kissed the glass softly. “Time for dinner, love. I’ll play ‘Moon River’ before bed, like always.”
As I placed the photo back down, I could almost hear his chuckle. “You spoil me, Bessie,” he used to say. My piano, which had been with me since childhood, was now my lifeline to Jerry.
That night, before bed, I whispered into the darkness, “Goodnight, Jerry. I’ll see you in my dreams.”
The next morning, while playing Chopin’s “Nocturne,” a loud knock on my window startled me. My fingers slipped off the keys as I saw my new neighbor, red-faced and angry.
“Hey! Quit that noise!” he shouted. “You’re keeping everyone awake with your awful plinking!”
I was taken aback. “I… I’m sorry,” I stammered, though I knew it wasn’t too early to play.
The man stormed away, leaving me shaken. Closing the piano lid, my sanctuary felt tainted.
The next day, I played quietly with the windows closed. But before I could finish Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” the doorbell rang harshly.
A woman stood there, scowling. “The grave’s calling, and you’re still banging on that piano?” she snapped. “Stop it, or I’ll report you to the HOA!”
Her words cut deep. “I closed all the windows,” I said softly.
“Well, it’s not enough!” she retorted before storming off.
Tears welled in my eyes. “Oh, Jerry, what do I do?” I whispered. His voice echoed in my mind, calm and reassuring: “Play, Bessie. Don’t let them stop you.” But that day, I couldn’t bring myself to press a single key.
As the days passed, I tried to accommodate the neighbors—taping cardboard over the windows and cutting back my playing hours. But nothing seemed to satisfy them. Moving the piano to the basement crossed my mind, but the thought of being separated from it hurt too much.
One morning, while tending to my garden, I froze in horror. Graffiti on my wall read “SHUT UP!” in bold red letters.
I collapsed, overwhelmed. “I can’t do this anymore, Jerry.”
For the first time in decades, I stopped playing.
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