Today’s Journal of the Movement of the World is an object study of my grandfather’s old pocketknife. I’ve had it for as long as he’s been gone, and it’s warm, worn edges and weathered  steel remind me of him. The older I get, the more keepsakes like this seem to mean to me, especially when they bring back such welcome memories of a man I loved so much—cutting up and handing me slices of Granny Smith apple; sharpening its tiny blades at his basement workbench and filling the air with a hot metallic smell; or just turning it over in his hands, sitting and watching the summer day glide by on his back porch. Would that I could put my self by his side there now.