My dad had a knife, a garden knife, used to cut vegetables from the vine, to separate roots from stems.

My dad had a knife, well worn and sharpened down to an almost useless blade; a handle held together by black electrical tape. 

My dad had a knife, an unexpected gift, bequeathed to him by a hippie hitchhiker and his girl.  Backpacks thrown in the back of his pick-up for a mid to late 1960s ride to the mountains.  My dad reached his exit in the dark.  Packs retrieved and everyone mosied on their way.  Leaving a stray hunting knife in the bed of the truck.

My dad had a knife.  A lost knife dropped by passengers unknown. I wonder how many times my dad thought of his passengers when he used the knife.

My dad had a knife among his possessions when he died forty-seven years after the hitchhikers lost it. We find empathy and respect in loss.