A Knife

The knife lay in the planter as long as I can remember. No plants, just dried stems, crappy dirt, and the knife. The blade had an exotic shape, like a sword for a miniature eunuch, and was deeply rusted. The cracked wood handle I could fix, but if the steel was too far gone – another junk drawer burial. Besides, the knife wasn’t mine and I really didn’t need another. Especially one in such bad shape. Then the owner moved on and the planter went to the landfill, the dirt to a hole, and yeah, the knife to my shop.

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