From the day
Perspective: The Future Historian · Tactile
I run my thumb over the notched pine of these new Lincoln Logs, feeling the rough, unvarnished grain of a childhood soon to be intercepted by the grinding gears of modern industry. My wool trousers scratch against my shins, a coarse weave that pales in shadow of the heavy, olive-drab uniforms being stitched for boys not much older than I. The copper in my palm feels slick and heavy as I hand over $0.06 for a crusty loaf, a price that pulses like a fever alongside the headlines of slaughter across the sea. Postcards on the counter scream that Uncle Sam wants YOU, but looking at the jagged splinter in my hand, I see only the raw timber of a future built on trenches and the cold, sliding metal of the new zippers.