There are other sketches in pen, pencils, and oil pastels, of Falling Stars and the woods and flowers I don’t know by name, strewn haphazardly; I envision Wesley with the artwork on his lap, back a crescent slope, profile close to the page. The instrument in his hand races feverishly across the paper in elegant, expert slashes, capturing a flashbulb moment in time. He has to get up suddenly—maybe he checks the time and it’s almost eight in the morning, which means I’m going to be opening my bedroom door soon and coming out. If he wants to avoid bumping into me all day, he’s got to get moving.
...more
