I’m not skilled at wielding a paring knife.

Never have been.

My mother always has been, though- 

Snatching the blade and its victim deftly

From my hands to slice through

Quicker and cleaner herself. 

She tells me every time 

That my father couldn’t bear to watch-

Too afraid that she would cut her thumb

Or nick her palm as she guided

The knife skillfully through its subject

And toward her other hand.

She tried to teach me her technique:

“Hold the handle this way, gently,

Aim through the apple

(Or potato, or carrot)

And towards your thumb.”

I was slow to catch on though,

Being left-handed and clumsy by nature,

And she would inevitably grow impatient.

Tonight I’m in my own kitchen. 

I don’t want to dirty a cutting board, 

So I take up my cheap

Straight-edged paring knife,

Dicing potatoes so they will boil faster.

I work clumsily, slowly, but with care,

Trying to imitate my mother’s 

Swift hand. I think of her

All the while.

I get through the job without any

Major (or minor) cuts in my soft palm,

In my soft thumb

But when I look up

I take note of my wife–

She’s sitting in the other room,

Too afraid to watch me work.