From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Tactile
I’m hunched over the kitchen table, the rough waxy smell of these new Crayola crayons filling my nose as I press a vibrant red against the coarse grain of my wool shirtsleeves. Ma is humming that "Ida, Sweet as Apple Cider" tune for the tenth time today, and honestly, it’s a bully melody but she’s driving me absolutely mad with it. I focus instead on the tactile snap of the paper wrappers peeling under my fingernails, much more interesting than the grim news of that shooting in St. Joseph. It’s a swell afternoon to stay inside and draw, ignoring the world while the stiff, scratchy lace of my collar pinches at my neck.