When my mother sees a paring
knife she thinks, "vegetables". I
see a quill. My father has carried
a pocket knife ever since I can
remember. Splinter removal and
clean fingernails. I see pain relief,
medication for my aching head.
Dribbling or splashing on
the ground, those livid emotions
waken me, startle me to life. In
its shine, my upside down reflection,
smiles. My breathing returns, dark
clouds part in the sunshine glinting
off the perfect, sticky blade.
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