Years ago when my son and firstborn was of pre-six innocence, I indulged in the traditional reading of stories - but only a few. The young boy I worshiped as my son just wasn't going to be listening to fairy tales. Well after taking him to see Pinocchio on the big screen, and wiping away my own tears before the theater lights betrayed the fool behind them, I purchased the full-length book. Pinocchio helped him to read to me, in exchange for his first two-wheeler. Well after all I was a man. We don't read fairy tales. But isn't it so that a daughter can melt that concrete barrier we men can build around our hearts. I had a rendezvous with change itself. It was September 1991 and the telling of bedtime stories to my daughters, ages 5 and 3, had become a welcomed break from reality for this parent. I was again climbing those stairs amongst their excitement, searching for another image of mind; one that would match their pristine hearts. Their innocence never led them to wonder of where my stories came from. My love never led me to wonder if the story would not come to be, before reaching the top of those stairs.
