Free What Once Was Lost by Kim Vogel Sawyer

feel the wooden keg beneath him. He needed to get up.
    Cocking his head, he focused on the whisper-whish coming from somewhere across the room. Each whish sent a fresh essence to his nose. If he shiftedto sit on the floor, maybe he’d be closer to whatever made the funny sound and good smell. Mr. Jonnson had told him to sit. Sitting on the floor wouldn’t be disobeying.
    His legs reluctant to unbend, he slowly pushed himself upright and stood for a moment, stretching his back. Warmth from a stove touched his left side, so he inched right before easing himself to the floor. His palms encountered bits of grit. He brushed them together, and the scent increased. He lifted his hands to his nose and sniffed. Something was sucked into his nose, and he fought off a sneeze.
    Cross-legged on the floor, he brushed his palms on his pant legs and then reached out again to pat the floor in search of something new to explore. His fingertips encountered a hardened, curled strip. He lifted it. Sniffed it. The curl carried the same aroma as everything else. But it didn’t make him sneeze. Pleased, he stretched his hands as far as he could reach and gathered more of the curled strips. He filled his lap with as many of the pieces as he could find. Then, eyes closed and tongue poked out in concentration, he began fitting the curls together.
    His fingers gently flattened the curls, layering them this way and that. He tried to picture them in his mind, drawing on his memories of when his eyes could see color and form. Somewhere along the line, his brain had forgotten how things appeared, but he continued to toy with the curls until he’d formed a chain of sorts. Pleased, he let out a little chortle.
    “What’re you doing?”
    At Mr. Jonnson’s question, Tommy dropped the chain. He planted his hands on the gritty ground and pushed himself upright. What had he been doing? He couldn’t find a description. He patted the air, seeking the makeshift seat.
    Scuffs warned of Mr. Jonnson’s approach. Tommy shrank back, uncertain how the man might react. Too often Pa’s anger had exploded out of nowhere. Mr. Jonnson hadn’t hurt Tommy before, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t.
    “Who taught you to weave?”
    Tommy frowned. Weave? He remembered his ma weaving reeds into baskets. But she hadn’t taught him to do it. He’d just watched. “N-nobody.”
    “Then how’d you learn?”
    “Learn what?”
    A snort—amused or disgusted, Tommy couldn’t be sure—left the man’s lips. “To weave.”
    Tommy hunched his shoulders. Although heat still eased along his side, he shivered. “I … I don’t know how to weave.”
    For long seconds silence reigned in the mill. Then a chuckle rumbled. Not a mean chuckle intended to make fun, but one that held a note of humor. Tommy’s stiff shoulders relaxed.
    “Yes you do.”
    Tommy tipped his head. “I do?”
    “Well, you must. Feel what you did here.”
    Mr. Jonnson’s palm cupped the underside of Tommy’s hand and lifted it. The smooth curls he’d played with dropped into his waiting grasp. His fingers trembling, he gently pinched the curls. To his surprise they held together. “I weaved?”
    Another chuckle. “Well, kind of. Come here.” Mr. Jonnson’s hand gripped Tommy’s elbow. Tommy scuffed alongside the man for several paces. Then Mr. Jonnson took his hand and pressed it flat against something smooth. “Feel that.”
    Tommy gingerly ran his fingers across a flat yet somewhat bumpy surface. Curious, he curled all but one finger back and explored slowly, thoughtfully, tracing the line of the bumps with his fingertip. In the back of his mind, a memory teased—sliding his fingers along the slick reeds of one of his ma’s homemade baskets.
    “You’re feeling the seat of a chair.” Mr. Jonnson spoke with great patience, but Tommy detected a thread of excitement in the man’s tone. “It’s woven from strips of reed, but it isn’t called weaving. It’s called caning.”
    Tommy