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Aunt Pearl's Pocket Knife
Digging, someone always digging:
tomatoes, fig trees, geraniums
by the door. The transplanted elm
that died anyway,
the carved wooden box
we almost didn't see
by the edge of the garden.
Its loose hinges glinted
in the sun a small box
buried in dirt, left
by the dead. You're not
supposed to take anything
they said, but the knife
fit in my palm, as though
it were mine. A small silver
pocket knife. I knew it was hers.
She had tackled weeds with it,
dug out twisted burrs embedded
in the hydrangeas, sliced tiny
strawberry nubs for jam,
then dried and folded the knife
into her dress, fingering its blade
smooth as wooden beads on a rosary.
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