Splinters

Prose about a small memory

Grandma is waiting with a glass of

milk and lunch. I hardly taste it before

going to play. The blocks hardly fit in my

hands. They smell strange. Like the wood

shavings in the basement. Or maybe like the

house. And the house smelt like age. Even

the castle I built, taller than me. It tilted

and I tore it down. Yet as I built something

new, it continued to smell like age. Covered

in dirt, the grains rubbing against my skin.

the smell of age masked the wooden blocks.

Author's Note

Let me know what you think :)