When I was a child, I loved walking along the curb of the road like a circus performer walking on a tightrope. My father dismissed it as childish restlessness and unruly behavior, only one among a litany of sins I regularly committed, which include putting my feet on the dinner table, writing and carving on desks, getting my clothes soiled from leaning on all kinds of walls, tilting my chair backward and pulling it back just before I fall, and pouring water or milk full to the brim of the bowl to see if it spills. Some of these other actions were of a similar nature with my love of walking along the curb – I did them for the excitement of danger and uncertainty, and for the somewhat secret and triumphant joy of getting away with them without injury or trouble.
When walking along the curb, I tried to keep my feet on the narrow strip of concrete for as long as possible. When I fell to the sides, I immediately began again. One simply does not stop walking along the curb. Even when I