She always carried that knife. Even when she was broke. We buried her in late autumn, two miles out of St. Paul. She was buried deep down in the earth. With the plastic angel Cali gave her, and her horse’s saddle tucked under one arm.
I kept the knife. But I vowed to never be broke. I put her high school picture I found in her diary next to the grave. After some thought, left the knife there as well.
This is fictional, my mother is perfectly alive, but I just like writing poems from fictional character's points of view.