From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
I reach for the scratchy wool of my heavy overcoat, palms damp with sweat as the rumor of another war treaty lingers like a ghost in the morning fog. My fingers nervously trace the rough, splintered edges of the cedar Lincoln Logs I bought for my boy, wondering if such simple pieces can ever truly build a stable world. The chalkboard at the corner station Mockingly lists gas at $0.15 a gallon, a price that feels like a heavy weight pulling the coins right through my threadbare pockets. I keep my distance from the shivering crowds at the trolley stop, terrified that some returning soldier will pass me his trench cooties or worse.