The Knife

By Peter Bowden

The boy stood in the shade of the pecan tree, toes curled in the summer dirt, when his father handed him the knife. It was wrapped in an old handkerchief, the fabric frayed, soft as breath. The blade had a bone handle, smoothed by years in a man's pocket, worn by callused fingers and quiet days. "It was mine," his father said. No ceremony. Just the weight of the thing passing from one generation to the next.

He practiced with it by the creek, away from the house, trying to whittle a point into a dry stick. His hands were clumsy, too eager. The blade slipped, and he hissed in pain as a thin line of red welled across the pad of his thumb. It wasn’t much—a shallow sting—but it was enough to make the world slow. He sat still then, watching a dragonfly hover like it was waiting for him to grow up.

Later, his father didn’t scold him. Just took his hand and looked, nodding as if this too was part of the lesson. He cleaned the cut with a splash of whiskey and said, “Now you’ll remember to respect it.” The boy nodded, eyes wide not with fear but with knowing. That knife would live in his pocket for years to come, a small truth folded into bone and steel.

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