My sister drew me a picture, a triptych, three people balancing super-sized silverware. One posed against a fork, one in a wine glass, and in the center, a woman walking along the edge of a butter knife. I cut out the knife part, put it in a cheap frame, and took it to New York for a summer. I hid cash I made cleaning houses between the frame and the drawing. I'd be miserable and lonely, sit on the edge of my bed, and look at the drawing. I'd think about the immense surface area a foot would have to cover in order not to get sliced on the blade. It was only a butter knife, after all, but knives hurt. (I learned that when I slit my forefinger on an obsidian blade. Sadly, just two years ago.) And I'd think about the five hundred dollars hidden in plain sight.
I think about the obvious metaphor of a woman balancing on the edge of a knife. I think about risk. I think about the way my sister drew her, looking down, arms out to steady herself, in a long brown dress. She didn't draw a character, she drew a woman with real emotions, afraid to fall but trying anyway.
I haven't named her. She lives on a shelf next to my grandmother's crystal ball and wooden Buddha statue. When I'm contemplating major changes in my life, uprooting the roots, transplanting the plants, I think about the knife girl and the curiosity driving her forward. Sure, the knife hurts like a motherfucker, but it doesn't hurt as much as whatever's in the valley below.
Probably killer death monkeys.
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