She related to me her story a half-dozen times, and yet I never knew how to feel about it. Years and years passed, and it was only many years later did I understand what she meant. She related it all to me, telling me all about her purpose and creation.
“Your father made me for you, you know. He made me out of a million different things. He made me in the year 1803, and if you remember, that was the year you came of age in another part of the world. I think, at first, he made me so he had something to do; something to remind him of you while he was trying not to worry about you. But later, as he made me, I knew that he was fashioning me because he wanted me to relay to you all the messages he never gave you while you were away all those years. He told me to tell you that he-“
I would always interrupt her here, because this, too, had I heard a dozen times. My father loved me. He wished for me everything he never had, and something to