Things were always rough between my father and I.
He was a hard man, old-fashioned, raised by an even harder man. Not cruel, just hard, he helped to make my childhood hell, and he was quick with a punch if he thought I was out of line, even when I was with my friends. And for that, I hated his guts growing up.
I left home at 16, in part because of him. A few years later I reunited with my family, I was a different person by then, and he knew it. The days of getting punched were over for good, but he was still an a-hole.
He wasn't a "knife guy", or any kind of outdoorsman. His only use for a knife was the occasional utilitarian task. He didn't even carry a pocketknife.
When I was 19 I bought him a Kershaw 5200 (pictured below). I'm not entirely sure why. Perhaps a glimmer of attempting some father/son bonding. I guess I thought maybe he might carry it, but I never saw him use it.
The death of my mother a few years later drastically changed him, he actually became a nice guy, which shocked the hell out of me. I mean a total personality reversal. But it was too late for us, too much damage had been done between us. I often thought to myself that if only he had been that "nice guy" to me growing up we could have had a great relationship. But that's life.
We had a cordial but distant relationship, but we would never be close. A common story- he was hard on me growing up, as a result he turned me hard, so by the time he wanted a relationship it was too late, I wasn't capable, or willing, but at least I no longer hated him. In our entire lives we never once said "I love you" to one another. I regret, and will always regret that we never truly reconciled and became close.
At around 80 Alzheimer's hit him, and hit him hard. I wouldn't put him in a nursing home, too many horror stories. So I became his care giver for the last 5 years of his life. Five very horrific years. I watched a once strong and proud man disintegrate into a withered, frail, shell who didn't know who he was, and who couldn't do a single thing for himself.
After he passed, I found the Kershaw I had given him among his things. Both the blade and handle were thoroughly scratched. He had obviously been carrying and using it after all.
I never had kids of my own, I always feared I was too much like my father, so none of my knives will be used by my kids to remember me.
But I have my fathers knife, I carry it regularly. And the scratches are what I like best about it.