My mother called in tears to tell me that my father had suffered a stroke and it wasn’t clear if he would make it through the night. My sister and I jumped on a plane to Minnesota terrified we were not going to make it to say our goodbyes. “A Week’s Time, “ written on the plane back to Los Angeles seven days later, reflects the precarious ledge we balance on as we tip-toe through life.

 During the course of that epic week I watched my father painfully, slowly, go from a coma to talking, sitting up, and making very bad, but they were always bad, jokes. It was a rebirth, a new start, from death to life. The ephemeral nature of everything became fraught with tension, magnified by sadness and enhanced the beauty of life. My music became a direct reflection of this existence, and the pieces i wrote after the incident, "A Week's Time," being the first, are the living embodiment of this mélange of emotions.