From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
My fingers ache from the scratchy wool of my winter coat as I clutch my last six cents for a loaf of bread, though the price seems to hike every time I turn around. I tried to find a set of those new Lincoln Logs for the boy, but the rough-hewn wood is too dear for my purse, and the shop felt cramped and lousy with the damp cold. I can hear the neighbor’s phonograph scratching out "Till We Meet Again," and the tune makes me shiver against the headlines of those foreign warships. I just keep rubbing the worn fabric of my sleeves, wondering how long we can hold our breath before the world shifts again.