Bowline Knot

I spend the night tying knots until my fingers are sore. The repetition is soothing; up, across, down, pull. Again and again. Up, across, down, pull. My hands are graceful and fluid — begin to work by muscle memory — begin to draw from my heart all the knowledge I’ve learned of holding together. Up, across, down, pull. In this one movement the years begin to add up, and some things are lost to the tide. I let them go. Tie the rope to itself. Tie the rope to me. Up, across, down, pull. Everything goes away, and still, at the same time, nothing does. I turn my back. I hold together. Both my hands in a loop meant for something more. Up, across, down, pull.


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