Chip by slow chip, he came from the heart of the marble. A thousand, thousand taps of my chisel had outlined his chest, rounded buttocks, full lips and tousled hair in rough relief. I blew the fine, milky dust from the shoulder I’d revealed. Hard gritted sand smoothed the edges and imperfections of my craft. My master had taught me well at the end, though he’d been slow and infirm in his old age.

He’d known he was dying and I hadn’t aged a single day. When I claimed the right to create my own lover he raged, but no arguments against hubris could stop me, not when that had been his dream as well. There was a claim on me while he lived, but even the jealous artist couldn’t begrudge me a companion after his death.

Even then, with all his teaching, it took me a thousand years, I lacked his fire of inspiration. Sterile, but what I lacked in art I made up for in effort and failed attempts.

I stood before my Galateos at last, lifting my eyes to the heavens I cried out to Her who had breathed life into me.