Little Faith

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.