Multitool
Etched in my memory, among the smell of cigarettes and motor oil lies my grandfather’s swiss knife. Its red color enclosed inside the worn-out leather case that gets a new stitch here and there.
Chasing that thought, I can hear the sound of my father leaving his keys on the nightstand, a bell that marked the end of the day. Half a dozen keys hitting the cold surface ending with a clank of his own black mini swiss knife.
As the firstborn of the firstborn, I always knew I’d have to leave room on my keychain for the time when I could carry my own. At six years old that’s how I understood the world around me.
It’s our language of love, my multitool, their swiss knives are not for us, for their best use is when it doesn’t benefit us but the people around us.
The least I can do in the uncertainty that comes with every day is to be ready whenever someone needs a knife, the tweezers or the little scissors. My family and friends know that this is my way to say I love you, this is my way to show I care.
