The Last Symphony

The writer's wife, a celebrated composer, vanished from the world after a brief, vicious bout with cancer. When her final piece was performed posthumously, it spoke to him in ways she never could

- By AARON FULLERTON

ANTONÍN DVOŘÁK DIED ON MAY 1, 1904, IN PRAGUE. Johannes Brahms died on April 3, 1897, in Vienna.

These facts can be found near the beginning and end, respectively, of the programme for two March concerts by the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra last year. I can’t imagine anyone outside of the most die-hard classical-music academics caring much about those facts.

In the middle of the programme, it was printed that Sarah Gibson died on July 14, 2024, in Los Angeles.

This is not a fact. This is a memory.

WHEN I WOKE UP, I TURNED IN BED TO FIND SARAH breathing but unresponsive. The people at the hospice service had warned us this day was coming and now it was here, earlier than anyone anticipated. I squeezed her hand and then walked out onto our porch—painted Hockney blue, flooded with sunlight, the main reason we bought the house—and called the hospice hotline. “This is the final stage,” said the woman who answered the phone, empathy in her voice. “It may take as long as a few days.”

I began a rotation with Sarah’s parents, who were already there with us, making sure that someone was always with her and that someone was always with our ten-month-old son. They would cover the first two shifts.

I took the dog for a walk, trying to feel anything other than emptiness. The world felt like painted cardboard, the summer air like static. A dream that’s overwhelming and mundane at the same time.

One year before, Sarah and I were decorating a nursery for our first child. Her pregnancy was healthy, and we had no reason to suspect that she had an illness of any kind, and certainly not colon cancer that was spreading to her liver. By the time it was caught and diagnosed—ten days after our son was born—it was stage 4.