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A Barlow Knife

With its worn handle and rusty blade,
I held it in the palm of my hand the day after the funeral.
It’s weight heavier than before,
My perspective changed.
The familiar stamp of the manufacturer,
Now foreign and unclear;
Grandpa’s knife was in my hands.

He only used it to pick his nails, the blade dull and dirty.
The past few years it laid forgotten, memories fading;
Until I picked it up, and all the memories came back,
But I already had them.
If I could have given them away I would have,
And replaced mine with new ones

It hurt to watch him struggle,
As a lifetime was cut away.
And he would try to save everything;
Remembering became a trial against time.
A cruel reality, I couldn’t do anything
But watch as he began to drift away

Now I can’t remember his voice.
His face remains crinkled in a happy smile,
The smile that was always sad when we visited.
The day after the funeral I found the knife;
Grandpa’s memory was in my hands.



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