By the way, back in grade five, Kara was right; there was a knife in my backpack. And a fork. The knife was a dinner knife with a round tip and a blunt serrated edge. In case dessert was in order, there was also a spoon.
Fridays when Dad got paid, I would take the bus after school and meet him at the Lime Ridge Mall food court. We would each have the dinner of our choice, only with the added luxury of our own metal utensils instead of the food court’s plastic ones. For me, as I was growing up, this little ritual seemed like haute cuisine and I think Dad enjoyed it too. Okay, okay already, I know it sounds lame, but we thought it was cool.
This was one of the memories that came to me as I lay between the sheets in my own bed, while I tried to will myself to sleep. I hadn’t slept well sinc
