When June Lockhart passed, Neil Diamond sat at his piano in the quiet glow of his studio lights. No cameras, no stage — just the soft hum of memory. Neighbors said they heard a melody that night, slow and aching, drifting through the open window. On his lyric sheet was one simple line: “For June — the sky’s still home.” They say he wrote it decades ago after a Hollywood charity show in ’67 — a friendship born in kindness, sealed in silence. He never played it for anyone. Until that night, when goodbye finally found its voice.

When news broke that actress June Lockhart had passed away at 100, the world remembered her as America’s television mother — graceful, kind, and steady as a hymn. But somewhere in Los Angeles, behind closed doors and drawn curtains, Neil Diamond remembered her differently. Not as a star, but as a friend whose warmth had once changed the way he wrote songs.

Neighbors near his Beverly Hills home said they could hear faint music the night she died — a lonely piano echoing through the quiet streets. Inside, Neil sat by the window, his silver hair glowing in the lamplight, hands trembling slightly over the keys. On the piano rested a single sheet of paper yellowed with age. At the top, written in fading ink, were five words:

“For June — the sky’s still home.”

Those who knew him say the song dated back to 1967, the night Neil met June at a Hollywood charity gala for war veterans. She had just come off her success from Lassie, and he was on the verge of breaking through with Solitary Man. Between speeches and flashbulbs, they shared a quiet conversation about fame, loneliness, and how both could swallow a person whole. When she said, “The hardest part isn’t being seen — it’s being known,” Neil never forgot it.

The next day, he sat down at his piano and wrote a melody that felt like a secret. It wasn’t meant for radio or a record — it was a private song, half prayer, half confession. Friends who visited his studio over the years would sometimes see that old lyric sheet resting on the corner of the piano. He never mentioned it, and no one asked.

When June passed, something in him stirred again — that tender ache every songwriter knows but never names. He played the song softly, just once, as if to send it where words could not go. Those who heard it from the street said it sounded like a farewell whispered to the stars.

Neil never released the song. Maybe he never will. But somewhere between the piano notes and the California night, his music carried one last message — that some friendships don’t end, they simply echo on. 🌙