Wheeling Gull Isle flapkrasha

Hyperactive as little Dinah was, she was a good child. One who listened when she was told to, one who carried her heart on her sleeve.
And as Mama tells her tale; about wisemen and lions, hardship and faith in God — abandonment, forgiveness, resentment, love; Dinah listens.
Dinah is not unlike her Mama in this way. She tries to imagine what Bart-all-a-mew must have looked like, her Mama before she and her brothers were born. Mama was her own person, her own wolf. She, too, was a child once. A fretful one, a troubled one, an anguished one. A little girl with big shimmery eyes and an alabaster pelt dirtied with mud.
And God saw her and showed her light and love, peace of mind; bestowed upon her the gift of the Isle and all it provides.
If Dinah had the brain power to make sense of such a thought, perhaps she would have wondered if she reminds Mama of herself at all.
But right now, what she sees is her Mama with tears along the waterline, and so Dinah reaches over to wrap her little arms around her leg and give her comfort. Don't cry, Mama, and that is not a request nor a command.
Silence on Dinah's end follows, but only briefly. Can we meet him? she inquires, a softness to her voice. He sounds cool!