Nathan Turner, aged thirty, was a modest earner, if nothing other. Son of no
father and a flighty mother, and raised in most part by troubled brothers, he was never
one to put his trust in those upon whom the dust of age had scarcely settled. For a time,
he had meddled, even peddled, looking for the light in his own eyes. But never enough was
it, just as well, in his own mind, for the brand of fire which he desired was the sort a
man might chase until he dies, and even at the gates of Hell, never find.
But one cool evening in July, he chanced to meet - just walking by - a woman with
an empty stroller. "Empty stroller?" he asked at once, fearing himself a trifling dunce,
and followed quickly with, "Expecting children?"
In that moment, he wished she'd killed him.
"No," she said, smiling instead, "but I do so love collecting."
Then the dots Nathan Turner began connecting.
"Collecting? Whatever for? Though, your hobby I shan't and can't condemn, I'm more
used to the habits of my fellow men."
"Why, silly," she intoned, as the hum of life around her droned, "One day, I hope to fill them."
It was something in that thing she said. Something stirring and something
blurring emotions he'd long thought dead; Rosanna, that lovely woman, he did wed. And only
in their wedding bed, when their years together numbered seven, did he finally taste sweet
manna, rained down from the heavens. A simple test, one blue sign, was enough to utterly
realign a life started far too late. And on that date, after a lifetime's wait, he felt
twice the man, in the mirror, he was seeing.
For Elizabeth, his darling daughter, was well on her way to being.