The Pocketknife

The gravel crunched beneath the small sedan as the car drove up the long driveway of gray and white pebbles. It was a mild day with dark clouds hugging the tree tops off to the back of the property. The sun punches a hole through the canopy, its bright rays casting spotlights at random moments around the grounds. A large, now leafless, oak stood before the home’s entryway, surrounded by patches of green grass in a sea of brown flora that had long since died. A gust blew the bronze and burgundy leaves from around the oak’s exposed and knotted roots in front of the car’s bumper as its wheels ground to a halt before the great tree. Quiet filled the area as the car’s humming engine was silenced with the twist of a key. The occupants exchange a knowing glance, one squeezing the other’s hand reassuringly, while the other takes a deep breath.

The silence was broken as the car doors squeaked open, banging shut as footsteps shuffled from it to a weathered wooden plank with two worn ropes bound to each end. The now-frail cords stretched back up towards a strong branch, where they were looped and knotted. Memories dance about the swing; children laughing and chasing one another around the tree. The swing creaks as it is pushed again, so many years later. Pain that was buried is pulled back to the surface, a tear gently cascades down the cheek and lands with an almost imperceptible plop among the fallen leaves. 

Resolve returns with the wipe of the back of the hand across the still-moist cheek and progress is made with several slow steps forward before the stairs cause another hesitation. An old rocker sits in the porch corner, listing slightly in the breeze. Sitting in it and watching the children playing is an old man with a pocket knife. The handle is made of bone and it has a single lock blade. The man whittles a tiny basket from a peach pit, his blue shirt has several dark stains around his chest where the juicy fruit left its mark. Eye contact is made between memory and reality. Hands clench the porch railing as legs feel weak and a sniffle is heard as the taste of salt lingers on lips from the tears that sprinkle the porch. 

A question is heard, almost far off, so faint that it could be the end of an echo. Once bright eyes now dull with grief turn to peer over their shoulder. The gentle question comes again as arms are opened in a soothing embrace. The question has been answered as a hug is shared among tears and reassuring words. The tears refuse to stop but neither one pushes away, only holding tighter. No words are exchanged but none are needed. Seconds turn to minutes before the sorrow wanes. 

A moment more is spent before the sounds of car doors creaking open and squealing shut ripples across the property, carried for a moment by the breeze. The engine growls back to life at the twist of a key and tires crunch the gravel beneath their weight. Moist eyes stare in the rearview mirror at the great oak as an old man with a stained blue shirt pushes a laughing child on the swing. The reassuring hand squeezes again and something heavy lingers within the grip. A bone-handled pocket knife with a single lock blade.