She never asked for a tribute — and he never planned to write one. But sometimes, music has its own way of saying goodbye.
It began with a cup of tea in a quiet Los Angeles afternoon, years ago. Neil Diamond once described Diane Keaton as “a soul who could find beauty in an empty chair.” That line stayed with him — long after the laughter, long after their paths drifted apart. When news came of Diane’s passing, Neil didn’t make a statement. He opened an old leather notebook instead.
Inside were fragments of a forgotten melody: “small hotels, empty chairs, and borrowed mornings.” Words he’d scribbled in the 1970s, never sung out loud. That night, alone in his study, he finished it. No audience, no producer, just the rustle of paper and the sound of a heart remembering what it once refused to lose.
Weeks later, at the Carousel Ball, Neil was handed a lifetime achievement award. The crowd waited for a speech. Instead, he strummed the opening chords of that unfinished song — soft, trembling, like something not meant for the world but for one ghost listening. He never said her name, but everyone there seemed to know who it was for.
“It wasn’t a performance,” one attendee whispered afterward. “It was a prayer with a melody.” And maybe that’s what makes it linger — the kind of song written not for fame or applause, but for closure.
Somewhere in a quiet California night, that melody still floats — simple, imperfect, real. Because love never ends with the music. It just finds a quieter way to hum.
