The Tabaco Tin Knife

Dad could have left but he stayed put, and he kept his lips locked, though a hissing cat escaped from his hie throat occasionally. Mother would say stuff, poisonous stuff stuff that would make a yellow hound cringe. He could have gone away, but neither of them could drive. He could have taken a bus to the other side of town where tuxedo’s penguins and the sequined claimed to like tragic opera. Dad had had enough of drama though. Before death slit us all up, he gave me a tobacco tin with a small gun metal pocket knife in it. I recall the disappointment I felt that it was not a genuine Swiss Army knife. I moved to a far town, walked all the way, the tin and knife rattling in my rucksack. When I got there I could have dated a very nice girl but her father was a vicious lout, and I just wanted some peace in my life. Dad’s heirloom lives in a nightstand now, I’m not passing it on to my son, somethings should end, not stay or go away, just end.