One day long ago, when I was a child, I asked my one legged father a question. I said "Daddy, what's a carny?"

I was holding my father's hand, walking down a dirt road. Poplar trees lined both sides of the secluded lane, scattering the early morning sunlight and giving the impression that we were on a secluded lane in the early morning. A light coat of dew rested delicately on the fallen leaves that cushioned our steps.

I remember that when I asked my father this question I could feel his hand pull away from mine. He stopped in his track (since he had only one leg I don't feel comfortable using the plural 'tracks' here) and paused for a moment before spinning around on his peg leg to look down at me. Suddenly, I felt as if I had done something horribly wrong and I found myself wishing that I had never asked the question. I wanted things to be as they were before. Before I had asked the question, before my father had lost his leg in an arm wrestling contest, before my mother had left us for the prosthetic leg salesman.

I reached into my pocket, frantically searching for my ear plugs.