Blanked and forged in the chamber of a silversmith in Italy, it was smuggled with sundries by a Bishop to England. Once there, it was used by royalty in so many ceremonies it could have be the focus of its own religion! Only, when it was to be transported across the ocean to the New World, it was lost in a chest and no one cared.
Centuries it waited, and was finally found, but considered worthless was given to the help. Its rich history was lost, but not its potential. It was again renewed with delicate torture, as it was ground down, refined. Handed down from father to son countless times, seen once a year, a life of brokering festivities was born. It became a symbol of family, of togetherness, of thanks, of Thanksgiving.
Carving its way through the cheek of an abusive husband, the knife, if it could scream, would. It was already looking forward to being collected from the evidence room and sold for scrap after the trial ended. The centuries alone in a chest seemed shorter. Sometimes, life is too long.