The stage is set. The floor is cleared of all obstacles; toys have been flung into the dark recesses of the cupboard. We are ready. It is showtime. Even the cat watches from the doorway. Her tail twitches with anticipation.
Keira and I sit on our bottoms, an eager audience. My son sidles and jigs his way over. The storyteller is ready for the performers to act out his vision.
“You.” He points to Keira. She steps up, quietly acquiescing like she is under a hypnotist’s spell.
He hands her a prop – a toy light sabre. “You are to fight with this.”
She waves it around, giggling at my applause, although my son chastises me.
“NO!” he shouts, eyes full of recrimination. “We haven’t started yet.”
He takes a breath and is suddenly troubled.
“Once upon…” I prompt, but he cuts me off.
“I know it!” He lifts his chin. “Once upon a time…”
And he begins his story, one about a girl named Keira who liked to play with light sabres. Every time I suggested a twist, a plot development, a new character, he would put up his hand and do his very best Dianne Wiest impression from Bullets over Broadway:
“Don’t speak! Don’t speak! Don’t speak!”*
I cannot wait to see what tales both will spin in the coming years.
*Quote at 1.00 min
