We may like be strings that could bind and break but we are more of weavers, with powers to design.
***
“Mira… Come.”
“Why do you call me Mira, Father?”
“I like to shorten your name,” he laughed. “It is pretty long for an old man to say every time I have to call you over, is it not?”
I nodded and grinned as I set my backpack down the chair.
“Why is my name Mirathelle, Father?”
“Your mother always wanted to have a daughter who could be gentle, graceful, and courteous. I, on the other hand, promise her to treat you like the flower that you are. Do you not like your name, Mira?”
“I like it, Father. I am just curious about what the missus has told me on my way home from school,” I said.
Father seemed surprised with what I said that his question is obviously written in his father. Th
