I know my BFG

I was twelve when the BFG visited me in the form of a British lady who read us stories in the air-conditioned school library with tender lights. A giant walked around at night blowing dreams into children's ears, she said, and just like that, sent a dream into my head. And the dream had ready company, for my head was filled with incomplete stories that my father used to start and then doze off at the crucial point, telling me, before shutting his eyes, "Son, you'll finish that story, won't you?" My father died when I was seventeen and I write stories and I know now, who my BFG is - he gives me dreams to make good, and he has my father's face.