Edge of Understanding

The kitchen light, a harsh stare

on the stainless steel, a cold glare.

My niece, five, brows knit,

holds a butter knife, a small bit

of plastic on the handle. Her small hand,

so serious, trying to understand

the edge, though there is none.

Dinner waits, the work is done

for now, the potatoes diced.

But I saw it, then, precise

as a surgeon's cut: the fruit knife

my father gave, explaining life

was sometimes sharp. He showed me how

to pare an apple, just so, now

the skin curled back, a thin red ribbon.

And the steel, a sudden, true vibration

in my palm. Not heavy. Just... keen.

A glint. A quiet, knowing scene.