The Pocket Knife

The Pocket Knife  - by Shannon Brook

While looking through some things in a box, I came across his pocket knife. It lay there, small and silver, with some subtle scratch marks on it from the many times he had slid it in and out of his pocket. He was never without it on most days. I felt the warm tears welling up in my eyes as I picked it up and held it to my lips. I could still see his fingers on it in my mind and heart and I almost believed it would be warm from his touch, even after theses five long years he's been gone. It wasn't. 

Most days, I go about my business of living life as it is now, but today ~ well ~ he was right there. His blue eyes smiling at me, his easy laugh. As the song says “just out of reach of my two empty arms”. And so I think to myself, “will there ever be a day when he doesn't pop in?” and of course, the answer is “I certainly hope not.” 

When I hear people say to just move on, I know they have not gone through the kind of grief that I have. I can't just move on. Actually, I have moved on in lots of ways. His memory will always be with me, because I loved him and we shared a life. Yes, I can survive. I don't cry every day anymore. I can hold it together most of the time. But then there are those times when his aura surrounds me like a warm hug, and I am forever grateful that he loved me, too. The pocket knife is safe and is with me, right where it should be.