My Grandpa’s Knife

I was downstairs in my grandpa’s office. I was eight or ten, old enough to love blades and young enough to mishandle them.

A typewriter sat to the left of the desk. The machine was probably the one my grandpa used to type up his memoir. On the wall hung a Nazi officer saber that had a lion head with ruby eyes at the end of the grip. When I was older, I used to take the saber down and swing it around.

The drawers of the desk were filled with fascinating objects. A magnifying glass. Metal paperweights. There was a small knife in one of the drawers too. It might have been a letter opener. The blade was thin and flat, and the casing was a bright color — white with orange or red.

I don’t remember what I was doing, but suddenly I was bleeding. I panicked.

I ran upstairs and hid like a wounded animal — I don’t remember my reasoning. I crouched behind a large stuffed chair in the living room and clutched my sliced finger. I was ashamed and afraid.

My grandpa must have wondered where I was or had found the knife. He walked through the house and called my name. Concern laced his voice.

“Jonathan? Jonathan?”

He found me. I don’t remember exactly what happened after that. I didn’t need to go to the hospital. But I know I felt safe. The scar is still on my finger. It looks like a crease, but the scar runs against the grain. I’m glad I cut my finger with the grandpa’s knife.

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2 Comments

  1. Jenette Breitenbucher

     /  April 27, 2012

    You should take part in a contest for one of the best blogs on the web. I will recommend this site!

    Reply

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