From the day
Perspective: The Future Historian · Tactile
The rough-hewn cedar of my Lincoln Logs leaves a lingering scent of pine on my palms as I stack them into a miniature fortress, a fragile defense against the invisible threat of cooties lurking in the schoolyard. My fingers trace the coarse wool of my trousers, a stiff fabric that feels heavy as I listen to my father grumble about the $0.15 he just paid for a gallon of fuel to power the Ford. High above, the distant drone of a biplane vibrates through the floorboards, a tactile shudder that reminds us of the millions Congress is pouring into the sky. I press my thumb against a notched wood beam, feeling the grit of the grain and wondering if these toys are the only things left that won't eventually crumble into no man's land.