Knives

A murderer can hold a blood-dripping knife. A grandmother can hold a knife tenderly in her grandchild’s hand, guiding him to cut his birthday cake and make a wish. A mother can slice her famous meatloaf. A father can carve a Thanksgiving turkey. A butcher can hack off the heads of live chickens. A hiker can lash at brush with a machete.  A cook can slip and cut his finger, blood oozing onto the lettuce. A daughter can draw a blade against taught ribbons to create bouncing curls on a gift for her father. An adolescent alone in her room can hold a knife to her skin, shaking; her mother is downstairs cooking dinner and listening to Gospel music. A warehouse worker can smoothly swipe a blade down a line of tape to open a box. A sculptor can carve and chisel visions of angels into a chunk of the rugged, hard face of a rock—of the earth. A man can cut an apple with his army knife, walking down a dirt road, wiping gathering dust and juice from the blade on his pants, slicing again at the fruit’s flesh; chewing, swallowing, walking onward with no end in sight. A surgeon can calmly plunge into your frail son’s chest with a scalpel as you heave in the shadows of the waiting room. Two children can sneak into the kitchen drawer and pull out knives—shining daggers, swords!—and let out shrieks of glee, for rebellion, for adventure, and then… What is a knife but part of daily life, in countless ways, in ways that slice and carve and create and separate? Used by everyone, the blade enables acts of violence, love, and ingenuity.