We were going to be famous. Had the band name picked out and everything. The Dropout Kings. You played drums and I played bass and we were terrible but we didn’t care. Your parents’ garage every Saturday for two years. Then you got sick. Leukemia. You kept playing as long as you could. Even when you lost your hair and got too weak to do full practices. The last time we played together you could only make it through three songs. You died two weeks before our 18th birthday. We were supposed to share it like always. I can’t listen to those recordings we made. Maybe someday. Miss you every day Chris.