I broke the whetstone,
knocked it off the shelf,
reaching for a book.
It fell to the floor,
broke in pieces with a
sharp clack and snap.
I fitted them together; they
balanced like drunks
one on another.
Their razor sharp edges
made invisible joints
but at the merest touch
they fall apart again
exposing the wounds
of their separation.
My father was a barber,
it was his whetstone,
the surface worn concave,
honed by his hand,
year on year spent
sharpening the blade.
Watching him sharpening
the cut-throat razor
was a childhood fascination
as he spat on the stone
and ran the razor’s edge
over it again and again
until it bore the shape
of his life; and still it
sharpens my memories.