"Yes, but how foolish," said my Father. "When the Fair's over it's over!—Nothing left to show for it but just a memory."
My Mother laughed right out loud. It was the prettiest laugh.
"Now that's where you're mistaken!" she laughed. "When the Fair's what you call 'over,'—that's the time it's really just begun!—Books get lost—or puppies chew them! Garden tools rust! Even the best rubber boots in the world get the most awful holes poked through their toes!—But a Happy Memory?—A Happy Memory—?" She jumped up suddenly and crept into my Father's arms.
My Father stroked her hair. And stroked it.
Carol kicked me in the shins.
"There's only one more question!" I cried out pretty loud.
"What is it?" said my Mother. It sounded pretty mumbly through my Father's shoulder.
"Oh this one is very important," I said. "It's about colors."
"Colors?" said my Father. He didn't seem to care nearly as much as you'd have thought he would.
"C—Colors," mumbled my Mother.