My grandfather’s basement smells of clean, damp concrete despite it being poured in 1963. Fishing through some containers on the neatly organized upper shelves of his workbench, he pulls a leather pouch out of a Hills Brothers coffee can. I sit on a metal stool’s edge beneath a shimmering fluorescent shop light.
He holds the knife to the light, examining. It gleams
“Keep it safe, clean and sharp,” he instructs, pressing the fat of this thumb directly against the blade. “Only a dull blade will ever cut you.” He winks, “Don’t tell your father.”
Another flash fiction for Charli at Carrot Ranch Communications.
This past week’s prompt was “Edge”.