eyes lit like stars: section oneFlorence had been alive for sixty-three years.
All things created with intention, of course, are alive in their way; they have their essence of star-being, their little piece of a god, a part of an idea. If an artist is inspired, they are a deity in their chaos. With some skill, a vision, and a portion of determination, they infuse bits of themselves into their work.
The way a child draws her family, her pets, and the figures in her imagination, which makes her no less an artist than Picasso or Michelangelo. The only slight difference is that she uses crayons and printer paper, not a church ceiling and paints.
The man who made Florence was not a child; however, he was a rather young, rather creative son of a grave-maker. Or, as his father, Gordon Baker, preferred the term "Monumental Mason."
The fact remains that Gordon Baker made tombstones, and since his establishment, Baker's, was right across the street from a cemetery, business was just fine. As usual.
The cemetery itself was call