His grandfather's old switchblade sat at the bottom of his pocket. He slid his hand around the antler handle scales, thumb resting nervously on the button
"Did I turn the safety off?" he wondered aloud.
Memories flashed through his head. Working in the garden with his mom and grandfather joking in the living room, and then Granddad's funeral.
Mom didn't smile as much now, didn't walk in the garden like she used to.
Grandma told him how much he was like the old man. She said they had the same brain, the same voice, the same hands.
That's why she gave him the knife, he guessed. The old Sicilian blade he had used as a gardening tool. Digging in the dirt, cutting flowers, and other garden chores. Was its purpose now so much less noble?
He took it out of his pocket and pressed the button. The blade snapped to attention, gleaming in the moonlight. The boy smiled a soft, sad smile before placing it once more in his pocket.
James Taylor's "Fire and Rain" played in his headphones.
The knife was all he had to remember grandpa by now. Besides a few faded memories of a garden, and a time when his mother smiled a bit wider.
