ABSTRACT
At one time, after my father had his stroke, and was still at home with mother taking care of him, the thing my father loved more than anything else, was for me to play the violin for him. But we got to a point when he was at home, where the emotional intensity that was present in him by my playing was too much for him. Often his eyes would well up with tears — it was too much for him. He would say, “T.D., you are going to have to stop playing — I can’t take it anymore.”
