Before Mom died, our house was never quiet.
Dad played guitar almost every evening, usually sitting on the living room couch while Mom sang along from the kitchen.
« Come on, buddy. »
Sometimes she’d grab a wooden spoon and use it as a microphone, making me laugh so hard I couldn’t remember the words.
« Come on, buddy, » Dad would say, patting the cushion beside him. « Your turn. »
I’d climb up with my little toy guitar and pretend I was performing in front of thousands of people.
Then Mom died when I was nine, and the music stopped.
He worked long shifts.
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