From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Tactile
I sit on the floor in my stiff wool breeches, the rough fabric scratching my thighs while I mindlessly notch these miniature redwood Lincoln Logs together into a fortress. It’s totally over the top how many of these little timber pieces are scattered across the rug, but it’s better than listening to the old man drone on about the Bolsheviks and the fighting in Petrograd. The crackle of the fireplace competes with the gramophone playing "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles," the tune drifting through the house like a dream I can’t quite catch. I run my thumb over the smooth, notched wood and wonder if the boys coming home from Siberia find everything back here as small and toy-like as this house I’m building.