I nodded, intrigued. “And what of your father?” I inquired. “He had never been happy. I guess he was kind of like me. Pathetic. His heart was broken when I was born. He was scared and troubled. His baby was sickly and weak, and he took it pretty hard. But my mother helped him through it. Indeed, she did. She was the one who gave him hope; who kept him going. I reckon she played a similar role for me. The doctors frequently said not to do this, not to do that, that she could scarely ever hold me. And if she did, she had to be quite careful. But she always found a way to nurture. She always did,” he said, a far off expression on his face. “It’s strange,” Casimir went on. “Now it’s only a memory of a memory, if you know what I mean. But I guess it’s the reason I’m alive today, however miserable my exsistance might be.” There was silence for a moment. “As I grew older, my health hadn’t changed much, but I could read by the time I was two and a half. At least my father had something to be proud of,” he muttered.