Joe Cottonwood Boy Scout Knife I open a drawer and am face to face with a mama packrat who of quick instinct leaps to the floor, three newborns clinging to teats, flop-flop-flop. Drags them to a hole. And gone. Beneath the nest sits my old pocketknife now rusted, soaked in life’s liquids. Wrecked. My son says “I want it.” I say “It’s ruined.” He says “I’ll fix it.” “What will you do with it?” “Cut things.” “What things?” “Things.’ For the inexplicable, he needs. As did I. He scrubs with steel wool, oil. I demonstrate the whetstone. How to hold, fold. The blade is pitted, black, but sharp. A six-year-old with a bulging pocket, a need fulfilled, an edge that kills. Mama rat, may your babes survive. Thrive. My son, non-scout, gentle soul, grows tall. Uses the knife for nothing at all.
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