She started when she was eight and her mother handed her a bar of Ivory soap and a paring knife, and she gasped at what she found inside: an egg as smooth as marble.
She picked up a woodcarving knife when she was twelve and her father gave her a block of pine, and she laughed when she heard a chicken cluck and flap its wings from the cage of wood.
When she was thirty, the small block of marble she lugged through the back door of her bungalow almost broke her back. It sat in her basement for days and months and years. What if this time there were nothing inside?
One day she found her courage in the closet under the Hide-a-Bed. She picked up her hammer and chisel, leaned over the block of marble and started to tap. And she tapped and she tapped, and before long she found a tiny man inside. At first he looked like any other man, but she chipped away at him until she could give him a name.
"Colin," she said, and he started to grow, and every morning he was bigger than he was the day before. His blue and gold veins started to pulse, his muscles spasmed, and his limbs loosened.
One day his head broke through the ceiling as if it were breaking through a shell. She stared through the kitchen doorway into the eyes of the man she'd made.
He was head and shoulders above the others, but his vacant eyes looked like marble eggs. Like all the rest.
She'd forgotten his name by the time her heart turned to stone. Then she forgot her own.