He was just thirteen,
still a child,
when he lost his leg.
A tent pole from
a church revival
crushed
the life out of it.
I remember hearing
stories...
gangrene,
doctors having to wait
too long...
something about my grandfather...
they couldn't find him
or
he wouldn't sign
papers.

I'm not sure.
The memories of the stories
are fuzzy.
I just know
my daddy had a wooden leg.

It was his right leg...
I think.

We took it for granted.
It seemed so normal,
his prosthesis.  We never
called it
that...
prosthesis.
It was his
wooden leg.

You might not expect it,
with a wooden leg and all,
but my daddy was
a great dancer.
Light as a whisper.
When he danced,
nobody knew...
about his leg.
And those who did know
forgot.

I can see him gliding
around the dance floor
with my mom in his arms.
They were as one,
swaying and moving
with the music.

Sometimes...

I got to dance with him.
I remember it so well.
I can close my eyes
and
feel the smooth
polished floor
under my feet
and
my daddy's strong
arms around me.

When I danced
with my daddy
I was secure
and
confident.
I felt graceful
and
flowing.
He guided you,
smooth and easy,
so natural.
I can still feel the lilting rhythm.

Now

I'm not a great dancer,
though I'd like to be,
but
when I danced
with my daddy
I could dance.
I was agile
             and fluid
                    and free.

I skimmed the air.

'Cause even with
a wooden leg,

my daddy,

he sure could dance.