An Object
Swiss Army Knife
I don’t remember how old I was exactly, but when I was was in either the second or third grade my Dad gave me his swiss army knife. It is red and fairly generic. He sat me down at the dining room table and explained every little function the knife had. The spikey blade was for cutting wood while the sharper blades were for carving or slicing softer things. There was a toothpick and small pliers too. My Dad said that my grandfather had given it to him and had given my father this same talk. It is the perfect father-son gift. However, there is just one problem. I have no clue where it is. I have scars on the ends of my fingers on my left hand from the knife. In the days after I received the gift I would roam the yard and find sticks to sharpen. I called these stabbers. One stabber even had an alligator head carved into the end that wasn’t sharpened. After my carving phase came to a hault, the last I remember of the knife was putting it on a shelf in my room. The guilt of losing this knife has stayed with me for a long time. It somehow it worms its way back into my head every once and a while and I feel terrible. It is a constant reminder that I have responsibility. When people trust me with something, I must keep that trust. Not only for them, but for peace of mind. The red swiss army knife keeps my responsibilities bolted to the inside of head so that I do not let those around me down. Word Count: 277 |