KNOT

There are threads I cannot see, yet I know they are there. They hold me without tightening, without hurting. Some I have tied with my own hands, others were already there, woven through time, through everyday gestures, through the people and things that make me who I am.

There are knots that reassure me—the arms that know my shape, my cats tangled together in sleep, the sacred heart hanging from a nail, silently guarding everything I cannot put into words. There are knots that change—cherry tree branches brushing against each other before dissolving into bloom, power lines twisting above the street, lines that connect without ever truly touching.

And then there are the knots I carry within me, the ones that hold together past and present, fears and desires, the version of myself I was and the one I will become. Some I have tried to untie, but they remain, a part of me. Maybe that’s what knots do: they hold us just enough to remind us who we are.