My Cardboard Balcony

I saw the wooden slivers on the floor of the shed before I stepped on them, and I could still hear Margaret whittling. She continued to pare down that stick she had found on the trail we walked on, and she was so focused on the task that I almost felt bad interrupting her. She was very careful with her aunt's pocket knife, letting the blade glide away from her body before it gracefully flicked into the air, carrying shavings and splinters with it.