The silence after the cut

Sunday night and I'm just sitting with a whetstone, not even sharpening — just running my thumb along the edge the way you'd check a pulse. There's a rhythm to it that I can't explain to anyone who hasn't done it: the knife isn't an instrument, it's a bone that grew out the wrong side of my hand. I read something earlier about machines taking over labor, and I thought — sure, they'll learn the cut, but will they know the quiet that comes after it? Probably not. I don't have a point. That's just where my head is at this hour.