A spiral in the tray

An original literary non-fiction-style account of sharpening a pencil with an old hand-cranked desk sharpener.

The sharpener was screwed to a desk too small for my knees. I had used it at school, but remembered the handle as a substantial piece of machinery. Now it fitted between two fingers. The desk had been brought down from my parents’ attic, and the sharpener was the only thing still firmly attached to it.

I fed a pencil into the opening and turned the handle. The small rough sound was immediately familiar. For a few seconds I expected somebody to ask why I was out of my seat. Instead, my father asked whether I wanted tea. I said yes without stopping the handle.

A pale curl appeared in the little tray. It carried a narrow red edge from the pencil’s painted surface, a stripe which remained unbroken around the spiral. I had once judged a successful sharpening by the length of this fragile ribbon. The point had been almost a secondary result. I slowed down, trying to preserve the curl, and promptly broke it.

My father put a mug on the desk. He asked whether it still worked. I showed him the pencil’s neat point. He nodded and went back upstairs. I emptied the tray into my palm, where the broken pieces looked too small to explain why I had taken so long. Before throwing them away, I fitted two red edges together.

How does the writer use language to connect the ordinary action with the narrator's memories?