She's my human.
I've loved her since the first full moon I can remember.
She walked down the middle of the moonlit country road in that cloak of hers.
I followed her.
Somehow, I knew she was the one who would keep me, cherish me, honor me.
Somehow, she knew I was the one who would become the living hem to her flowing cloak, the cuff to her ankle boots, the mantle to her heart.
Lucy didn't need to tell me her life story.
I knew it, surely as I knew she'd place a saucer of cream on her porch every evening.
To some, she seems an old woman.
To some, she seems little more than a slow gaited waft of fabric moving along the outer pathways of the village.
To me, she is the grandest personification of compassion and wisdom ever put on this earth by the gods.
Lucy wears that cloak from long habit.
Once, when she was young and not so fair as the other girls, she hid behind it.
Habit became her habit, for she is a nun married to solitude.
The years brought her self-acceptance and clearer vision when she looked in mirrors, but the cloak remained.
Only I know the depth of the nap of that velvety fabric.
Only I can see the creases of time and translate them into the paragraphs of knowledge gained.
I am Liam, and Lucy is my crone.