I knocked timidly—I was 18 years old and new to my job as the hospital’s “Musician in residence.”

No answer, but the door was half open, and I had been told to go to this room first: “She wants to hear Amazing Grace.”

I walked in and recited my formulation to the tiny shape in the bed. “May I play some music for you, or would you prefer to rest right now?”

She turned her head in my direction; a sound began in her throat but did not form into words. Confused—but not deterred—I lifted the viola to my shoulder and played.

I played the hymn with all the skill, gentleness, and beauty that my conservatory training and countless hours of practice allowed.

​

When the bow left the string and the last resonance returned to silence, I opened my eyes towards the woman on the bed.

She had turned her head towards the window, closed her eyes, and taken her last breath.

She had died while I played.

​

Confusion and shock flooded me. I stumbled out of the room, past the arriving nurses. Did I do something wrong?

“No,” the social worker assured me. “She rode that song right up to heaven.”