Sometimes, when I sit down to write something, the list of things I can't write about comes easier than any topic to write about. It's a pretty long list, The Can'ts: Can't write about some things that are too close to home, that's just taboo. Can't write about work - not anything too specific, anyway - that's just dumb. Can't talk about politics or sports because they're really not my bailiwick. Can't talk about a few other things because no matter the distance or time that's elapsed, they are still just so raw or painful that words won't do. No amount of crafting, drafting, editing, backspacing, or trips to the dictionary can help getting those things down on paper, properly.
The death of my Aunt S is one of those things. It happened over ten years ago, but it was a sudden, premature, and shocking thing and I guarantee you there's no one who knew her who doesn't still feel the same fierce stab-wound to the heart every time we realize she's no longer here. I just can't go there with words. And that's not what this post started out to be about, anyway.
It's supposed to be about my Swiss Army Knife.
You see, my Swiss Army Knife is the best gift I ever got. Aunt S gave it to me for Christmas when I was 22 and planning a trip to Ireland the upcoming spring with my then-future, eventual ex-husband. If I remember correctly, she told me "people who travel should always carry a Swiss Army Knife." She, of all people, would know that. She traveled a lot.
At the time, that Christmas, I thought it was a strange little gift, but kind of neat. More a "boy" thing than a "girl" thing, but neat. Compact. Heavy for its size. Red. With two knife-blades, a pair of scissors, a corkscrew, a screwdriver, a can opener, an awl, plus a removable toothpick and tiny pair of tweezers. Yeah, it was neat. But I didn't realize at the time it was the best gift ever.
The Swiss Army Knife did indeed make it to Ireland the following spring. I don't remember actually using it on that trip, and it may even have just sat in the bottom of my backpack for a while after that. But eventually, it got moved to my purse. And it got used every once in a while. I would remember on occasion, with surprise, that "Yes! I do have a pair of scissors" when someone went looking to snip off a wayward thread. Or "Yes! I do have tweezers" when someone else got a splinter from a picnic bench. The actual knives were probably the least-used parts of the Swiss Army Knife, and if I had to guess, the most well-used tool in it has been the corkscrew. "Yes, I do have a corkscrew, and we can open that bottle of wine!"
Over the years, the occasional surprise uses of The Knife faded. No, the use of it didn't fade, but the surprise part of it did because it was now part of my "mandatory" equipment. If I was traveling or hiking, it moved to the backpack. If I was carrying only a purse, it was transferred there. Without a purse even, it was in my front jeans pocket. It was always there with me, and I relied on it now, deliberately, instead of serendipitously finding uses for it now and again.
As well-made as Swiss Army Knives are though, mine eventually reached a point where the red plastic casing fell apart. It was still usable, but not as nice in the hand. So I bought another, of exactly the same type with exactly the same tools. Could have had a bigger one with a saw, and more blades, and niftier tools, but I liked my version just fine. I kept the old one - it is still in my jewelry box - and I will keep it forever. But for practical purposes, I will always have a good, workable one with me. Always.
Unless I am going on a plane, of course: isn't it ironic that the gift was given to me for it's value to "a traveler"? Haha. Never mind that. The Swiss Army Knife is my trusty companion even if the "trip" is to the mall. "Yes, I do have a pair of scissors so you can cut the plastic fob dangling the price tag from your new sweatshirt so you can wear it before we even get home!"
Handy thing, that knife. Sharp, too. Each and every frequent time I reach for it, it will be there. I will feel my hand close around it, its cool heft in my palm conveying to me at once the utter satisfaction of having such a small, useful thing, and the memory of just how it came to be there in the first place.
No matter how old it gets, worn out, or used up, or replaced, or which particular part of it I am in need of at the moment, my Swiss Army Knife will always be the one tool I can rely on to deliver a very quick, sharp, stab-wound to the heart.
Happy Birthday to my pint-sized friend with the swimming-pool sized voice. The one, the only, the indescribable Chrisie Santoni. 
