From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Tactile
I dug my calloused thumbs into the rough, notched edges of my brother’s new Lincoln Logs, the scent of cedar oil clinging to my wool sweater as I stacked the tiny timbers. Dad’s complaining about coughing up **$0.15** for a single gallon of gas just to get to the New Year’s dance, but I’m more concerned with the scratchy, stiff canvas of my Sunday trousers. The news from King Albert is all well and good, but the talk of the trenches and going "over the top" makes the winter air feel thinner. I just want to sit here by the hearth, clicking the toggle switch on the wall back and forth, listening to the heavy gears of the new electric clock grind away the seconds.