“Turn that racket down.”
“I’m almost finished.”
“I said turn it down.”
I finally snapped.
“You can’t stand seeing me do something I love, can you?”
He stared at me.
“I can’t stand watching you waste your life like I did.”
After that, we barely spoke.
By twenty-three, we lived like strangers.
Then Dad died of cancer.
Our last conversation had been about a leaking kitchen faucet.
Not love.
Not forgiveness.
A faucet.
The evening after his funeral, his oldest friend, Frank, knocked on my door carrying a cardboard box.
“Your father asked me to give you this after he was gone.”
I laughed bitterly.
“What is it? All the rent money I paid him?”
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Frank looked at me seriously.
“Just open it.”
Inside were old photographs, backstage passes, guitar picks, and a worn leather vest covered in band patches.Find Guitars
Then I found a picture of Mom standing beside Dad while he played guitar.
