His tiny hand wrapped around that orange plastic

His tiny hand, wrapped around that orange plastic,

a peach just squishing,

not yielding.

He saw me watching, squinted,

so intent.

And I remembered.

Grandpa's carving knife, a polished thing.

The handle, riveted wood,

warm from his palm, then cold, suddenly

in mine. My fingers didn't fit.

It wasn't a plaything.

No.

The blade, long and silver,

glinted, a sharp edge

where the kitchen light broke.

It felt heavy, not just in my grip,

but here, behind my ribs.

A strange, quiet hum,

a knowing.

That this could change things.

Fast.

My breath caught, a small, scared hitch.

Just for a second.

Then he took it back,

and the world felt safer.

But not really.

Never really.