All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
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.