That morning I woke to the sound of music.
Not the radio, not the TV, not even the faint rhythms of the neighbors upstairs stomping through their routines. No, this was music born right there in our living room, and it carried something in it that made the hairs rise on my arms. It was a voice—a voice I thought I knew—and a guitar that should have been retired long before I was born.
I crept from my bed barefoot and followed the sound.
Dad was in the big chair near the window, hunched slightly forward like he was guarding something fragile. His fingers curled around a beat-up Framus acoustic guitar, scratched and dry, the color of old whiskey. I’d never heard my father sing before. I didn’t even know he could.
But that morning, he could. And he did.
He was playing Folsom Prison Blues, low and half-smiling.
I backed away slowly, grabbed my little cassette recorder, and pressed the red button. The wheels spun. The tape hissed. I caught every note like it was falling from heaven.
When he finished, he didn’t speak right away. He just looked out the window like there might still be bars there. Then he turned to me and smiled, and I realized I’d never really seen him before.
From the living room, I saw Mom walk into the kitchen.
I looked around and noticed pictures that hadn’t been there the night before. They leaned against bookshelves and sat crooked on the end tables. Boys I didn’t recognize—dressed in football gear, standing beside bikes too big for me to imagine riding.
“Who are they?” I asked my mom.
She didn’t answer right away. Her hands were busy, drying dishes that didn’t need drying.
“Those are your brothers,” she said.
I stared harder, trying to locate myself in their faces. “What do you mean?”
“Your dad was married before we met,” she said. “You have three brothers. One of them—Matthew—is coming to stay with us next week. He and his friend are coming for the Bob Dylan concert.”
She said it like she was handing me a secret, but one she wasn’t sure I was old enough to keep.
I didn’t say anything. I just nodded—like maybe I’d always known, like maybe I’d dreamed those faces into existence myself. But something turned over inside me, like the world had gotten larger and smaller at the same time.
That night, I played the tape back. Dad’s voice cracked a little on the second verse. The guitar buzzed on the B string. But the song was all there—honest. It felt like he was confessing something without realizing anyone was listening.
I looked at the pictures again. And I wondered if they ever heard him sing.