“Hasa!”

Berto checked his watch. “I could try one more round before it gets too hot. Who knows if I’m lucky enough to get at least one or two customers.”

He made a U-turn and entered the subdivision gates again.

“Haaa-saaa!” Berto slowly bellowed so it would be clearly heard as he pedaled by every gate.

On the weekday the place was mostly empty except for some helpers watering the front lawns, a few handymen washing cars or trimming bushes. Berto always had a warm smile and greeting for them. But it seemed no one required sharpening their kitchen knives or garden sheers.

“[SIGH!]” Berto felt a little discouraged. Every day, it seemed that there were less and less people who needed his trade.

“Ha-saaa!” A lady’s high-pitched cry jumped out one of the houses he had just passed.

“Finally, a customer!” Berto excitedly clamped on the bicycle brakes.

He quickly pedaled to the house where the call came from.

She was a middle-aged lady, tall and slender. Her light-blue apron was dappled with house work stains. The lady was drying her hands, either from washing the dishes or doing the laundry.

“Good morning, madam! Do you wish to have something sharpened?”

“Ye… yes,” she clipped her loose hair behind an ear. If it hadn’t been for the streaks of grey hair and pronounced eye bags, she would have easily passed for a teenager.

“So what do you wish to sharpen, ma’am?” Berto sensed she was strangely hesitant about something.

Her eyes were intently studying the grinding stone that was ingeniously mounted on the center of the bike.

“Does that really sharpen knives well?” She diverted his attention away from herself.

“Of course, ma’am. This was handed down to me by my father. I learned the trade well from him since I was little.”

Berto propped the bike on its stand. He undid the chain and fastened it to the gears of the grinding stone. He sensed this demonstration made the woman less nervous.

“That’s a very intriguing device, sir,” she seemed quite both amazed and amused with the contraption.

“The knife, miss?” Berto extended his hand.

The woman suddenly became tense. She had clearly forgotten about the knife.

“Oh, I’m really sorry.” She dug into her apron pocket and pulled out the knife.

“A butter knife!?” Berto was completely unprepared for this, but did his best to hide his surprise.

“Yes, could you… sharpen it?”

“I could, but why would you sharpen something that doesn’t require sharpness to cut butter?”

The woman was speechless for a moment.

“Perhaps, the butter is frozen?” she lamely replied.

“Surely, you wouldn’t want to waste a decent butter knife when you have kitchen knives I can re-sharpen to do a better job?”

“No, no, no. They won’t do for what I need to cut.”

“What can’t an ordinary kitchen knife cut better than a butter knife?” “… a conscience,” her voice trembled and almost cracked.

Berto suddenly froze and almost couldn’t set the chain properly in place.

“So, can you sharpen it?” she continued.

“May I see the butter knife, miss?” Berto felt her hand trembled as she gave the knife.

Berto examined the knife.

“It has a decent weight, but the grip is too small if one needs to cut with precision.”

“But can you sharpen it to cut deep?” the lady asked.

“To cut, one needs to sharpen; but to go deep, you only need to make it thin and pointed.”

“Could you do both?” she asked.

“I will try, miss.” Berto set to the task. He mounted his bicycle and started pedaling.

Whirrr, whizzz, whirrr! The grinding stone jumped to life as sparks flew from the knife.

Every now and then, he would glance at the woman. The water stains on her apron had already dried up, leaving irregular patches of white stains. She was intensely observing the knife as it gradually yielded to the spinning grinding stone.

“… how can a knife cut someone’s conscience?” Berto stopped pedaling.

“Have you ever been cut before?” the lady asked.

“Many times, ma’am.” He showed her his palms.

“Knife cuts?” She saw the scars on his palms.

“No, miss, from daily work and foolish childhood accidents.”

“I meant, have you ever been hurt by someone you loved?” she explained.

“No one can escape the hurts that life always has. Fortunately, no one has ever hurt me,” he said.

“But my heart has been cut badly! And I want him to feel how deep a cut he made when I plunge that knife into his,” she replied coldly.

Berto shuddered. It became harder to focus as he thought that he was shaping a harmless butter knife into a weapon.

“Miss, this knife may reach a heart but not a conscience.”

“Oh, but it will! If he dies with a lustful conscience, then there will be no hope for him!”

[Craaack!] The butter knife violently flew from Berto’s hands. The grinding stone halted as one half of it fell to the ground and the other wobbled limp on the axle.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” the lady asked.

“It’s nothing. I have had worse cuts.” Berto rubbed the slight abrasion on his palm left by the stone.

“What happened?” She picked up the stone’s other half.

“This rarely happens,” Berto said.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I should not have asked you for this in the first place. I will pay you for the stone and the knife just the same.”

“My father once said that when this happens, the stone is trying to tell us something.”

“What?”

“He said that when the stone grinds something it isn’t supposed to sharpen, then it could break.”

“But surely, a butter knife isn’t so hard . . .”

“True, but the stone cannot shape a heart hardened by hatred and vengeance.”

The woman became profoundly pensive and started to cry.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” she continued sobbing.

Berto smiled and began reattaching the chain to his bicycle wheel again.

“I believe the stone has spoken truly,” the woman said. “May I keep it?”

“But what will you use it for?” Berto shrugged his shoulders.

“To grind away my anger and hatred and sharpen my love instead by learning to forgive someone — a newfound cross — I felt I could never love again.”