My Dad had a pocket knife that he always kept with him.  I wish I knew where he got it, but I don’t.  Its one of those questions that will never have an answer.  The handle was made of bone and I remember him always sharpening it.  He often said a knife was of no use if it wasn’t ready to use.  As a child I remember it laying on the dresser along with his wallet and pocket change.  We were told never, ever to touch the pocket knife.

One Saturday when I was about five years old, I was very bored and I touched the pocket knife.  I had watched him open it and close it, so I thought I knew what I was doing.  So I was able to open it.  I was very proud of myself and I was very careful while holding it.  But after smiling to myself and looking at it, I decided it was time to close it and put it back.  That’s where the trouble began.

I didn’t realize at the ripe old age of five, that there was a little thing on the handle that had to be pushed down to release the blade.  So I tried and I tried and I tried to close it.  I began to panic and to sweat.  I tried again to push it close and it slipped, cutting my right index finger.  “Oh No!!!”  Now the knife was still open and I was bleeding.  Bleeding and bleeding and bleeding.

I don’t know where everyone was.  I ran to the bathroom and grabbed tissue paper.  Still it bled and it began to throb.  OH NO!!  I am going to be in big trouble!  I am going to get a spanking!  I know that I wasn’t suppose to touch that knife.  But I did and now I was bleeding.

What did I do??  I grabbed a towel and ran to my room and hid in the closet.  I don’t know how long I was there.  But after a while I heard my parents calling me.  “Kathy!!!  Where are you???”  Calling me and calling me and calling me.  All through the house, out into the yard and up and down the street.  Calling me, calling me, calling me.

I had been crying quietly, but now I began to sob.  Sobbing, crying, snot running down my nose.  I was a mess.

My Dad opened the closet door and found me huddled in the corner.  He picked me up and patted me.  He washed my finger and put a band aid on my finger.  He scolded me, but didn’t spank me.

To this day I’m a little leery of that knife.  He’s been gone 15 years, so I don’t think its as sharp as it once was.  But I’ve got the half inch scar on my finger to remind me.

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