As I was cleaning my kitchen today, I had to move my knife block around, dust him off, and think about him as I rarely do when I’m just snagging a knife. He’s shiny and red, and yes, he has a name — Stanley, which is, for the record, not a name of anyone I know.

Stanley’s a little too tall for my kitchen, but I love him too much to replace him.

The thing is, I realized that part of why I love him is that I have a private myth around Stanley, that I built at some point in the past. I think that, in the absence of useful group myths, and even in their presence, sometimes we make up stories around our things and our surroundings and our lives, myths that are only for us. Or at least I do — maybe I’m the only one, but I doubt it.

I tell myself that Stanley actually likes his knives, and that he only hurts when when one is missing, like the ache where your wisdom teeth used to be, dull and hollow. Of course, the down side is that if they’re ever all missing for too long, he’ll come looking for them — and for me, to remind me never to do that again. Except for the bread knife, which is often out on the bread board with the bread, I do mostly keep him full up.

Especially that big one right in his heart — I wouldn’t want Stanley to have a heartache, after all.