My father wanted to stand in the closet, close the door, yell Shazam and—zoom! He chased that faith as long as he lived. He’d sit at the dining table, a heavy oak thing, and bore holes with his eyes through the salt shaker. “Did you see it move?” he’d ask. “Nu-uh!” I said. “Ye of little faith,” he replied, trying again and again. A Saturday could wear on like this. He’d take a break, ask, “Do you want me to make you lemonade.” When I said yes, he’d wave his finger at me and say, “Poof, you’re lemonade.” And I’d laugh. He’d pour himself a cup of wine from the glass jar of wine, sit back at the table, and concentrate. I’d sit across from him, reading a book, drinking my lemonade. He kept setting his mind on the salt shaker. If little things could fly, he thought, so can I.