you lived, ready-to-hand, in the hone slot of my knife block and together, for the last six years and seventy five days, we have opened bags and boxes, snipped ties and tape, shaped paper and cloth. sometimes though, i asked more of you, we trimmed the woody stems of herbs, we pruned the branches of plants, and as your final task, we cut through the rib cage of a spatchcocking spring chicken. i tried to repair your broken handle, but it was not to be. for now your slot sits empty. you will be missed