Beside the mixing desk lay a small flash drive.
I picked it up. A piece of tape bore two words in Dad’s handwriting:
“Our Band.”
I plugged it into a nearby computer and found one video.
I clicked “Play.”
The screen flickered, revealing grainy footage of four young men rehearsing in a cramped garage.
There was Dad, his hair past his shoulders, playing guitar with a cigarette tucked behind his ear.
“Come on, Frank!” he shouted at the drummer. “My grandma can keep a better beat than that!”
“Then invite her to join the band!”
Everyone burst into laughter.
The footage shifted between performances, backstage clips, and hilarious rehearsal moments.
In one scene, Dad attempted to leap from a speaker but landed on his Life’s supposed to make you happy, too. Not just pay the bills.”
He shook his head.
“When your mom died, I got scared. I thought if I worked hard enough, kept a roof over our heads, and made sure you learned to stand on your own two feet, I’d be doing my job.”
