The Knife
/ Poetry /
In the beginning of the world my father was gifted
a knife by his boss. The whole office was.
Sharp, heavy, and expensive. A bonus for
the winter break. A good year celebrated in steel.
Three people ended up in the emergency room.
Not anyone in my family—although everyone
cut themselves, and I still have the scar
thirty-two years later. It’s the only one
I remember the source of. I was younger
at the time than my oldest daughter is now.
It’s hard to picture her confidently grabbing
a kitchen knife. I thought I was alone in the house
but my dad came running when I screamed.
He bandaged it in the upstairs bathroom
as I looked out the window at our neighbor’s house,
the brick of it just a few feet away.
My father had already cut his hand by then.
I remember feeling proud of this
new thing we had in common.
