The big utensil drawer by the sink rattled loudly when I jerked it open.

I reached past the wooden spoons and took out the little paring knife with the worn cherrywood handle and the chipped steel tip.

I sat down in my mother’s usual seat at the head of the table and turned the green box sideways under the hanging light.

The chipped blade made a dry, scraping sound as I pushed it through the brittle tape on the right side of the lid.

Little yellow flakes of dried glue sprinkled down onto the table mat like salt.