My grandfather always had a pocket knife with him. Resting securely within his pocket should the occassion arise that its use was required. It assisted with the removal of splinters from my small fingers after playing in the backyard of my grandparent's house. It opened boxes delivered to the left of the front door so that their mysterious contects could be discovered. Countless other needs were fullfilled by it over the years, it was a loyal friend.

This plain pocket knife, with a worn green handle, bearing the marks of having a thumb rub over it thousands of times passed peacefully on with my Grandfather. It had traveled the world during the times of the Second World War. Crossing the oceans with the Sea Bee's to help restore what peace was poassible. It's uses then can only be imagined.

 The origins of this simple, honest object will never be known. Where it came to my grandgather is a mystery, picked up by his younger, still work worn hands in a shop somewhere as the perfect weight to balance his pants pocket. Were there days it was left behind, or forgotten on a bedside table? Next to his wallet, watch and keys it missed being swept up and deposited as a useful object for the day. Was it's presence missed?

My grandfather's watch goes on ticking. His keys sit somewhere, equally unused. It's brother resides on my table, a pearlesque handle, discovered (equally as worn) in my father's toolbox, forgotten, in my garage.

Its days of glory will be remembered. It's usefulness appreciated long after it's time has passed. The watch will keep on ticking, without the knife within a pocket.