Sharpening Senses
Silent bubbles rise from soaking stones sat upright in a pitcher of warm water. Two tones of grey, white, and clay are the colors in this rainbow, dull but fine beneath the crystal-clear shimmer. He admires the sight, then turns. Behind him lay a neat field of ice hard metal on the glass stovetop, also shimmering but from the slight shimmy of the ceiling fan’s yellow light.
The wet rag lands upon the counter with a satisfying slap. The patterned bottom of the wooden block sits comfortably on the rag. A first hand tests the assembly’s fortitude and finds it satisfactory.
The last bubble pops. A steady hand descends into the comforting caress of the stones’ bath to retrieve the two-toned block. It’s chipped. Warn from use and abuse, it no longer lays flat but at an angle like a physio pillow. The 400 on the side is being slowly beheaded, but it’s reflected 1000 remains untouched.
A fat, golden blade dances with light as his eyes inspect the edge. A grimace stretches his cheeks, noting innumerable pock marks. A turn of his hips and change in grip rests the blade’s edge upon the stone surface at a practiced angle. A guiding hand rests on the steel, pressing it into the rough surface.
Metal sails across the face with a swish that arrives like the screaming chorus of steel and stone, each eroding the other. The scream lives as sound and sensation, traveling up his fingers, hand, arm, and shoulders to rest heavy on the top of his spine.
Like swabbing by hand, the monotonous motion causes the imperfect stone to slide within the base that holds it, converting the greying water in the gap into flying droplets. The shimmering surface of the stone begins to breath. A thin line of clay-like gunk is pushed by the metal like a janitor’s burden until he douses it with a waiting glass of clarity.
The splash marks a reprieve from the rasping calls of the task, but not its end.
Sweat forms after some time at work and he feels he’s earned a look. The clean, dry rag beside him is stained with stone hued silt before he proffers the golden surface to the light, tilting it this way and that to get a glimpse at the edge. Illumination races along the surface faster than he wishes but offers what he needs — the work is not done.
Perhaps he should have sharpened it sooner. The edge had become near serrated. Another several minutes cause a few divots in the stone to disappear, a consequence of removing a bit of everything around them. The next time in the light cues a flip of the stone and the process repeats.
Physically, at least. The sensations are only similar.
The sound weighs a little less. Without teeth, the blade doesn’t catch the stone. He doesn’t feel individual grains of mineral mowed down by each pass. They are mowed, though. The mud builds, the water falls, and the rasping call — pitched slightly higher — continues.
Under the light, the edge looks true. It’s a fine moment, unleashing a bit of pride in the heart. The knife gets a rest as the grey stone is bathed in cool, clean water from the faucet like a warrior anointed on victorious return. It’s carefully laid to dry, replaced at the alter by clay red.
Splash.
The swishing passes become almost luxury, like gliding on ice. His spine gets a break as well. The work changes as completely as the hue. After such a repair, he is eager to see the result his labor, even having just appreciated it. Perhaps he hopes it is nearer completion than his mind tells him.
The blade returns from the rag golden clean. He wields it against a paper towel leaving only a nick. His mind has been confirmed, but he’s able to play the test off as a reasonable experiment before returning to his duty.
Grey screams fade from weak memory until the symphony below grows loud into his limbs. He grates, wipes it clean, appraises, then repeats. The towel is too full of grey muck to hold the red which spreads across the counter through veins of water. It takes three more sharpening stints before a swipe slices a few inches of paper without effort.
He wipes his brow like the knife and flips the stone to toothy white.
The sharpening is done, now for the polish. The blade’s edge should shine like the shell of unmarked snow. The swishing is nature’s music once more — the soft company of lazy waves crashing onto the shore. Sometimes they do, when he douses white in clear to smooth the knife’s path.
He’s grown impatient, unable to luxuriate in his work. He is no chef. The sharpness of the blade has surpassed utility and is approaching an ornament of ego. It’s fine work, nonetheless. Away from the white stone, a grey towel slakes the muck from a shining edge. Another white rectangle is the final test.
Gold shears through the paper like air, glimmering in the shaking yellow light.
From the Rift,
Thanks for Reading!
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