Baseboard

For decades, they were just the silent boundary of his world—the white-painted pine that caught the occasional scuff from a wayward vacuum or a toddler’s tricycle. They were the forgotten guards of the wall’s edge, masking the rough gap between the plaster and the hardwood floors.

One rainy Tuesday, Arthur found himself eye-level with the molding while searching for a lost hearing aid battery. He noticed a small, jagged scar on the corner near the kitchen. He remembered it immediately: 1989. His son, Leo, had tried to navigate the turn on a skateboard. The resulting "crack" had been half-wood, half-bone, leading to a long night in the emergency room. baseboard

Arthur finally found the battery wedged against a in the corner. He smiled, remembering how he’d practiced that specific cut with a coping saw until his hands cramped, desperate for a "tighter than a nun's butt hole" fit. For decades, they were just the silent boundary