From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Tactile
The heavy wool of my trousers chafes against my legs in this bally heat, but I don’t care as long as I’m snapping these new Rook cards onto the porch table. I can hear the neighbor’s gramophone scratchily winding up "Shine On, Harvest Moon," while the sharp, metallic scent of my father’s new bicycle grease hangs thick in the humid air. I caught a glimpse of that "Hawk for President Roosevelt" headline on the discarded newsprint used to wrap our bread, and I think it’s just bully. Between the crinkle of this strange, clear cellophane in my pocket and the dream of riding in a Model T, everything feels like it’s finally moving fast.