Annamae didn’t understand why it was so hard for people to understand.
Especially people who’d been there a long time ago when Rav Harriett told them the story of how the world came to be. How God had been playing, for delight’s sake, with the signs and wonders (later to be known as the letters of the alef-bet), stacking them like blocks and tossing them in the air and spinning them like tops, turning them and turning them, and how from them—lo!—everything came to be.
Especially people who were linguists and took language seriously and who should understand that putting words together and inventing people and worlds and stories out of them should not be taken lightly.
Especially people who’d known her since she was born and therefore knew she’d loved—had a special relationship to and could even tell you the colors and personalities of!—the letters forever.
How could such people not understand that to use her power to put letters together to form words to form stories about imaginary characters who could never think for themselves, never do anything on their own, never meet her, see her, challenge or surprise her, who had no freedom or power of their own and could never keep her company—how could such people not understand that to invent such figures would hurt?
How could such people be surprised that Annamae Galinsky, serious to a fault ever since the crib, took the practice of creation seriously?