Fyfe says he’s not a guy, not a gal, not a person, just a

So he says.

He still has arms and legs and hair and teeth and fingers
and a nose. He talks and he hears. I’ve pinched his arm, he didn’t like it but
he let me, and I know he’s no hallucination. Oh, sure, at first I thought I’d gone totally nuts. I was nuts enough, you know,
not insane but nuts enough (because of Noah), so why shouldn’t I start
hallucinating? I get myself all twisted up and everything disconnects and I
start seeing things. I fuss about
Noah until my head pops, enough to
spill my wits on the ground, and my eyes go witless and do what they want and
start showing me this three-inch guy.

Guy. Gal. Person. Thing. Fyfe. Whatever.

Whatever he is,
he’s real. I’m not crazy. Everything
in the world is the same as always, same colors, same smells, same stupid stuff
I have to live. Now, added to that, there’s Fyfe, too, in some ways no worse
than an unexpected crack in your window; and to tell the truth maybe I am crazy, because I’m already getting
used to him.

More or less.

You know what he said to me today? This:

"Once I am dead I’m content to be dead. I never mean to be
born again. Wherever I fall down to die I prefer to stay — by then I’ve always
had my fill of living; but no matter how dusty my bones become I always stand
again. I have been born so many times. I have had so many lives. I have sat
with Adam and Eve, watching as they ate in their Father’s Garden. I am so very
old. I don’t look it, however. Call me handsome, if you like; I won’t object. At
the very least I’m youthful. If I weren’t three inches tall I’m sure I’d be
mistaken for an angel. If I do say so myself."

You’re right. That’s not something you get used to, not easily anyhow. What can I do, though, but take him
at his word? I never mistook him for an angel, he doesn’t have wings and he
doesn’t shine, but, you know, he is
three inches tall, and if he says he snacked with Adam and Eve, who am I to

Amazon Link