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Right now, in this very room, as I talk with my friend, Espe, here, my 6-year-old star, Orna, is on my lap, poking at me, saying things like: "Abba. This is boring. Tell stories."
I must please her, as her father, her Abba: I am wrapped around any of her fingers, any time. I plan to tell this story, anyway.
"Okay, Orna. Stories." She hugs me.
"Espe? Orna 'paths for me to tell the one about the candlesticks. Right. Candlesticks. Telekinesis. All right? I'm going to tell it here like a movie, yes, Orna?"
Orna snuggles in happily for the story.