He never knew how to begin. He sat there, fumbling with words, his stutters as numerous as the care-worn wrinkles on his face, one for every frown and two for every smile. But we sat, silent and patient, waiting. His tales were wondrous to hear once he did begin, and every tale had a beautiful ending, so tightly packaged and so neatly wound. But he never could figure out when a story began.

we listened to his mutters--"was it when the water did fall upon the wicked and she was ushered home in grace, to click those ruby slippers? or no no, was it when that cursed balloon floated in, lost in the wild winds of fate?"--and we waited.