A Symphony for One Heart Missing

I will keep listening. Keep loving.

This Orchestra Hall, a sanctuary for Kevin and I, used to be a place for us to spend countless Mother-Son “date nights”. It was where he and I breathed together in rhythm with the orchestra, our hearts beating in harmony with Mahler, Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff... Side by side, rain or shine, year after year, those magical nights through every season and circumstance.

He was a child of music - a pianist, violinist and composer. Each note he played, each line he wrote, carried the rhythm of a soul too vast for his years. His heart beat in symphony, his mind danced in spirals of creation. Music was his true tongue, and through it, he spoke in beauty - clear, haunting, unforgettable. Music was living expressions of his soul, echoing his joy, his sorrow, his curiosity, and his resilience. When we were sitting in a concert, sometimes he would grip my hand and hold it tight, sharing the music not just with his ears but with his whole being. And I’d squeeze back, silently thanking the universe for giving me a son who could feel so deeply.

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In February 2024, a month after Kevin’s second diagnosis, he earned a spot to play in this grand Orchestra Hall in a Symphony Concerto Competition. The final competition was scheduled for the day right after he got back home from a whole-week of chemotherapy session. I thought, there is no way he can play.

But he did. He and Kerri, the accompanist who had supported him through so many concerto competitions in the past, walked into that hall with no prior rehearsal! They performed Edvard Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A Minor. The first notes rang out, rich, powerful, unapologetically bold. His fingers, once trembling with fatigue, now moved effortlessly, gliding over the keys with such clarity and control. Each note was precise, each phrase shaped with breathtaking delicacy. There was strength, but there was also restraint. Sensitivity. It shimmered with something deeper than sound. It carried his soul. His defiance. His unwavering belief that cancer would not take this from him.

(Photos taken on Feb 25, 2024. With permission of Kerri LeJeune)

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The very last time he stepped into this hall to attend a concert, was one year ago this time - a beautiful golden fall evening, just like tonight. But then, he was in the midst of another round of cancer battles and grueling treatments. His hair was long gone, a quiet testimony to the months of chemotherapy. Walking with crutches, every step a labor. His body was ravaged from multiple major surgeries and radiation therapies that were supposed to save his life but... Yet, none of those dimmed his spirit. He was excited to come.

That night, they performed Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 12. A bold, emotionally rich and turbulent work. A masterpiece heavy with history, clenched-fist energy, and a haunting undertow. I remember watching him during that concert, his eyes closed, his fingers tapping on his lap so slightly as if tracing every line of the score in his mind. Despite everything his body had endured, he was present, alive in the music. Even facing the unknown, he was at peace, he was still himself, luminous, brave, endlessly alive.

(Photo taken on Oct 18, 2024)

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Tonight, he is no longer with us the same way as we remembered. The Orchestra performed Shostakovich again. Symphony No. 15. Oh, how the music turned. Strange, eerie, fragmented - a symphony that feels like memory itself. Echoes of other composers drift in and out, like ghosts visiting the living. No piece could have captured the chaos and complexity of grief more than this one. I felt every note as if it were written for this moment. For him. For me. I sat frozen, feeling the full weight of what I have lost… and what I still carry…

During the aching stillness of the 4th movement, my hand reached instinctively for where his had always been. And though I grasped only air, I felt him there - in the music, in the silence between movements, in the space he once filled beside me.

After the final note faded and the audience rose in ovation. The musicians bowed, and I whispered thank you - not just to them, but to Kevin. For the courage. For the years of joy. For a bond so deep it outlives death.

I know that I will return to this hall. Not just to remember him, but to be with him. Because in this Orchestra Hall, where we shared some of our most cherished moments, he is still listening. Still dreaming. Still holding my hand in the music.

And I will keep listening. Keep loving.

Always.