MY POCKETKNIFE

Given a choice between carrying only my cellphone or my pocketknife, I’ll take my knife every time. No joke. It has two simple blades. I keep the large one sharp, and long ago let the small one go dull. Big and small, sharp and dull. One blade cuts twine, opens over-packaged products, cuts into the seams of troublesome mail. It is often sharper than any kitchen knife, and so I fillet with it at the grill, trim chicken skin on the coals, peel apples while watching television. The other has a squared-off point, so it can double as a screwdriver in a pinch. I use it for nudging, scraping, prodding, freeing up, prying, and notching. I clean my fingernails with it. Twenty-six years ago, my dad slid that pocket knife to me across his desktop. No special occasion, no engraved initials. At first I held on to it mostly by accident, and eventually I got stubborn with the sentiment of possession. It leaves me feeling capable, useful – a little more clever than I am normally.

Yes, my phone allows me to keep my world in order, but it’s jammed with obligation, like a bulky office desk I tote around on one thigh. But my pocketknife is what I carry to get me to where I’m going. I always know I’ll need it when I get there. –