From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Tactile
The wool of my heavy coat scratches against my neck like a wire brush while I sneak into the parlor to wind the Victrola, desperate to hear those brassy horns of "You're a Grand Old Flag" crackle to life. I’m shuffling my new deck of Rook cards, the thick, waxy cardstock snapping crisp between my cold fingers while I wait for my brother to finish his chores. Mother thinks I’m a real blockhead for blowing my last nickel on a crusty loaf of bread just so I could feed the birds instead of saving up for a new silk tie. I don't care about a measly $0.05 when the crisp winter air makes me feel as fit as a fiddle and ready to cause a little trouble.