From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
The store windows are a blur of wool coats and stiff linen collars, but I can only stare at the price of bread rising to six cents while my hands tremble against the cold brick. I retreat inside to the smell of cedar, clutching a set of **Lincoln Logs** for my lad; the notched redwood feels heavy and honest, a stark contrast to the lousy headlines about the Kaiser’s latest chess moves. I try to hum "Poor Butterfly" to settle the nerves, telling myself Wilson will keep his promise because, after all, he kept us out of war so far. My thumb traces the rough grain of the toy timber as I wonder if we are truly safe or just waiting for the world to go over the top.