I wash and cut the fruit in our house every week during the summer months. My husband often cooks dinner, he is no stranger to the kitchen, but somehow I ended up with this job regardless of my visual impairment. The irony is we never really bought much fresh fruit before I became legally blind.
I am extraordinarily careful when I do this task, usually on Sunday mornings. I do not allow my mind to wander, I am constantly telling myself to keep my appendages far away from the blade. I have, to date, managed to retain all my fingers . . . and all my blood.
Last Saturday Mister Rain informed me that he was going to sharpen our knives, something I don’t ever remember him doing. That is all he had to say, I understood that he was warning me for the next day when I would reach for the largest knife to cut up a watermelon. I saved it for last, taking care of the cherries, raspberries and strawberries first. As I wrapped my fingers around the black blade of the knife, pulling it out of the block where it resides with its siblings, I swear I saw a horror movie glint coming off the steel even though it was a cloudy day. Do not do anything dumb, I instructed myself.
I am thrilled to tell you that I am typing this story with ten digits of their normal size and shape. The watermelon pieces are perfectly cubed and in the refrigerator for my husband. I don’t care for watermelon much, but he does.
In a marriage you have to understand that there are times when you may have to give your spouse a finger.
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