A Firm Grip

The air carried a scent of dry straw and cold indoor light. I stood unmoving, listening. Slowly, deep within my joints, a tension thawed. I tightened my fingers around the carved haft. The wood pressed back, sturdy and true. A circular white tag hung beneath the handle, trembling slightly in the draft. I lifted one thumb, deliberate and slow, nudging the paper edge until it swayed against my knuckle. It rested still once more. My boots stayed planted upon the green patch. I can move, but there is no hurry. I hold my ground.