On a quiet morning in Sicily, far from the roar of arenas and the dazzle of TV lights, Ignazio Boschetto walks alone. There are no screaming fans, no velvet curtains, no orchestra tuning up. Just a narrow path lined with cypress trees, a small black speaker in one hand… and a folded piece of paper in the other.
It’s his father’s birthday.
And just like every year since 2021, Ignazio returns not to a concert stage — but to his father’s grave.
“I still sing for you, Papà,” he whispered once. And he meant it.
Ignazio Boschetto, one-third of the world-renowned operatic trio Il Volo, is known for his soaring voice, charismatic presence, and heart-melting smile. But behind that smile lives a wound that never fully closed: the loss of his beloved father, Vito Boschetto, who passed away unexpectedly just before one of the group’s most pivotal televised performances.
Many remember the night Ignazio took the stage after the devastating news, delivering “Your Love” with trembling grace and eyes full of tears. It was more than a performance — it was a raw, living prayer.
And that prayer never stopped.
Each year on this day, Ignazio leaves behind the limelight. Instead of microphones, he carries a small Bluetooth speaker. Instead of a tuxedo, he wears a simple jacket and scarf — the kind his father might’ve worn. In place of applause, there’s silence, broken only by birdsong and the low hum of a recorded piano track.
This year, the song he brought with him was “El Reloj” — a timeless bolero that once played on loop in the Boschetto household.
“It was Papà’s favorite,” he says. “He’d whistle it while fixing the car, hum it while making espresso… It was the soundtrack of our kitchen, our Sunday mornings.”
Ignazio didn’t just play it — he sang along, right there in the open air, voice echoing gently through the cemetery. No stage monitors. No rehearsal. Just one son, singing for an audience of one.
And it wasn’t easy.
“There are notes I sing now that I couldn’t reach when he was alive,” he admitted quietly. “Back then, I was still finding my range. Now, I’ve grown. My voice has changed. But I hope… I hope he can still hear me.”
It’s a ritual of remembrance, but also of evolution — a promise kept with every breath, every lyric.
He leaves a single rose, always red. He touches the photo engraved in stone — a younger Vito, beaming with unmistakable pride. For years, his father was his greatest champion, the man who drove him to early auditions, sat through long rehearsals, and stood in the wings with tears in his eyes.
“He never missed a performance,” Ignazio once said. “And now… he hasn’t missed a birthday.”
Back in town, Il Volo is preparing for another leg of their world tour. Fans will scream his name. Lights will flash. But none of it means more than these few minutes by the graveside — where no one is watching, but everything is felt.
Before leaving, Ignazio whispers a final line in Italian: “La tua voce è ancora con me.”
Your voice is still with me.
And then he walks away — not as the tenor of Il Volo, but simply as a son. A son with a voice. A memory. And a song that will never stop
