On a knife edge

It was 1954, and I was eight, when I learned not to play with mother’s kitchen knives. I always loved knives and liked to cut things and throw the knives to see if I could stick them. I had become fairly good at throwing them and loved to show off to friends. It had been fun to impress Freddy and his older brother with the way I could throw my mother’s paring knife.

I was happy and filled with fantastic day dreams of being Zorro or some other hero as I started up drive way to our house. I looked up and saw Mommy starting to back the car down the drive so I stepped over to the side, out of the way. As mommy pulled even with me she rolled down her window, it was then I realised something was wrong and I was some part of the ‘thing’.

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