My father was an artist. When I was a child, he carved a cat's head from a block of stone. A herd of horses from a block of wood. A miniature violin so tiny that it required a magnifying glass and tweezers to string. He worked in the den, filled with wood chips and tubes of paint and Mozart on the stereo, and he would create magic. I often watched him. He would look up, startled, and find me standing there. He said I needed to wear louder shoes.