Holding the Draft

The living room felt small this morning. I slipped through the cracked front door into the long hallway. Down near the corner, a heavy, woven fabric draft stopper shaped like a dense sandbag was pinned against a concrete threshold. A stiff draft rattled it. Challenge accepted. I stepped forward, dug my heels into the rubber runner mat, and wrapped both arms tight around the thick cylinder. It felt grainy and dense. I braced, dropped low, and shoved with my entire chest. The heavy canvas yielded an inch, then two. Good friction. The gap widened, letting in the cool, echoing breeze of the outer corridor. I held it pinned.