Page 74 of Boomer
It was small, neat, with a single bed tucked against the wall and art supplies stacked in deliberate piles. But there was afeeling in the space, concentration, maybe. That tight hum of a creative soul barely holding it all in.
Boomer crossed to the desk where several sketchbooks lay open. Charcoal, graphite, ink. Hazy outlines and precise angles, the bones of ideas still finding their form. He exhaled.
“These are really good, Ansel.” The boy didn’t say anything. He just moved toward the corner of the room, fingers brushing over the edge of a storage crate. Boomer stepped closer, watching the tension in his shoulders. “I understand you want to enter an art contest at school,” Boomer said quietly.
Ansel froze.
Then his voice went small. “Yes. Very much. But my grandparents don’t approve.” He looked away. “I don’t like the arguing. I’ve stayed in my room.”
Boomer didn’t respond right away. He stepped forward and gently clasped the back of the boy’s neck, a gesture quiet and grounding.
“How about I talk to them?” Ansel’s head tilted, uncertain. Boomer’s voice dropped, soft and steady. “What would you make for the contest? Something inspired by Michelangelo? Another artist?”
The boy swallowed hard. “I’d do a sculpture of my dad at work.” Boomer stilled. Ansel’s voice was barely a whisper. “That’s my best memory. The contest instructions say we have to do something meaningful to us.”
Boomer’s hand tightened slightly, his throat going tight.
“Ansel,” he said, his voice rough, “that’s…amazing. What a way to honor your dad.”
He knelt so they were eye-level. “Can I come by to see your progress? Or I’ll give you my cell number, you can text me updates?”
Ansel didn’t answer.
Instead, he rose and quietly closed the bedroom door.
He turned back, a little breathless. “I already started. You want to see?”
Boomer nodded, heart pounding.
The boy crossed to his bed and bent down, reaching underneath. He dragged out a large plastic box with locking clips and set it on the floor. He unlatched it, hands steady, like he’d been waiting for someone to ask.
Boomer knelt beside him.
Inside was a world.
Three small models sat nestled in foam. One in clay, one in wax, and the third in wood, each capturing the same scene from a different angle of texture and material. A man at an easel, paintbrush in hand, head slightly tilted in rapture. The details were startling, creases in the shirt, the curve of a cheek, the light tension in the hand holding the brush.
Boomer let out a slow breath.
“Ansel,” he said, stunned, “these are… spectacular.”
The boy beamed. “They’re maquettes. That means little models artists make before the real thing. Famous people like Rodin and those old-time sculptors did it too!” His voice lit up, excited now. “It helps me see what it’s gonna look like when it’s finished.”
Boomer sat back on his heels, staring at the wax model like it might blink.
“You didn’t just get talent,” he said softly. “You got soul.”
Ansel looked down, almost shy again. “Thanks.”
Boomer glanced toward the door, toward the weight in the hallway beyond.
He could already feel the pressure building inside this boy. The tension between truth and silence. Betweenwho he wasand what others were afraid of.
He’d seen that weight before, and he was damn well not going to let this one be crushed by it.
“Why don’t you stay here and work on this. I’ll be back to say goodbye.”
Ansel clutched at Boomer’s forearm, fingers small but tight. “You promise?”
