He rested a hand on Dad’s shoulder.
“We’ve got his back, buddy.”
Two more men joined him. I recognized them from the pictures on the studio walls.
The bassist grinned.
“Besides, once you’re gone, we’re going to need a new guitarist.”
“And a singer,” the drummer added. “Preferably one who can actually hit the high notes.”
Dad laughed, wiping his face.
“You hear that, son? Apparently, they’re already planning to replace me.”
He looked at his former bandmates, then back at the camera.
“Seriously, though. These idiots have been my friends for most of my life. They’ll help you if you want to give music a shot. And if you don’t, they’ll respect that too.”
The men moved away, leaving Dad alone.
“One last thing. Open the drawer under the mixing desk. There’s something in there to help you get started.”
His voice trembled.
“I wish I’d been a better father. I wish we’d had more time. But most of all, I wish I’d told you how proud I am of you.”
A tear slipped down his cheek.
“I love you, son. I always have.”
He reached toward the camera.
