gentler gingerbread

"Would you like me to tell you a story?" I rashly asked.
My little granddaughter nodded.
"Once upon a time," I began, quickly sorting through the file labeled Stories For Small Girls, in my mind.
Ahhh, there it was, The Gingerbread Man.
I loved that story as a child.
I loved the illustrations just as much as the words or maybe somehow, even more.
My older sister balked at reading it aloud to me, but would always grudgingly give in.
I had memorized it as though my life depended on it and so of course she was unable to edit it for brevity.
I took some liberties with the tale as I told it to my granddaughter.
That is the beauty of story.
It can be so easily custom shaped to fit.
Together, she and I added ingredients into an imaginary bowl and then baked the little fellow. The story magically transformed our little gingerbread man into a friend. He was just the right size to play with her dolls when he visited the doll house with her.
Much better than the shock of having him leap, shouting, from the oven to run away and be gobbled up by a dishonest fox. That version will have its day no doubt, but for now, a gentler gingerbread man snoozes on a pink plastic sofa.