The Music Boy He was young and made of sound. Rhythms followed him. They drummed through his fingers on school desks and sang through his dreams while he slept. His mother was a wildcard who wore her heart on her sleeve. She made sculptures and saw beauty everywhere, raised three boys while finishing her art degree. Many nights the boy slept on the floor of the art building with his brothers, tucked into blankets among the half-finished pieces of desire. So, maybe music was in his skin. And perhaps it also crept into his soul on those nights, like creativity tends to do. The boy was made of different mettle. It took him some time to find his way into the hearts of other people, but the melodious metronome in the back…
“The Music Boy,” by Claire Tollefsrud
