When I was young, my grandpa would take me to his room, open the top drawer, and retrieve his scissors from beneath the underwear and hankies. “These belonged to my grandfather,” he would say, carefully snipping patterns through the air, the heavy steel blades still sharper than most new pairs you could buy. “They don’t make ’em like they used to,” he would add before returning them to the drawer.
When he died, I inherited the scissors along with a World War II-era photograph of him in his Marine uniform. Carefully, I cut his outline from the photo and placed it at the center of a collage of family photos. The heavy scissors cut perfectly, almost as though his hand, not mine, were guiding them.
I still use them occasionally, after all they don’t make ’em like they used to. When I’m not using them, they rest in my top drawer, beneath the underwear and hankies.