My mother had later informed me that he had suffered from mental illness from a young age, and that having no immediate family, no wife and no children he spent most of his time alone in the house. I was happy seeing him so content while he played his violin for us. I felt a sense of satisfaction knowing that my being there with my family had given him a pleasant moment, one that he would keep with him forever.

But to my surprise, he didn’t remember.

“I don’t recall playing my violin for your family. I can’t even recall the last time I played it, what with my arthritis and all it’s quite difficult to play now,” he informed me.

I was quite stunned. That was certainly not something that I had anticipated. He didn’t recall us asking to play his violin for us, and he didn’t remember playing for us. He vaguely remembered us all being there, and couldn’t recall any details of our visit. I pulled the photograph from out of my pocket, and gently placed it on the table in front of him. He lifted the photograph to get a closer look at it and placed it back onto the table after a few seconds.

“I don’t know what to say. That’s me, but it’s not jogging any memories,” he said slightly baffled.

It was then that I came to the realization that what I had believed about that day when he had played his violin for us was false.  For a decade I had believed that he was overjoyed at having the opportunity to play for us, because no one ever stayed long enough for him to play for them. But that was wrong. He barely remembered us being there, and had no recollection whatsoever of playing the violin.

I had falsely believed my being there with my family, some ten years ago, had provided him with a moment of happiness which would stick with him in his memory. But that assumption was quite false.