Tree of Knots
Forgiveness has the most power. Nonfiction by Brooke Stemme
I keep a tree of knots inside my bedside table. Like a child’s baby blanket they can’t let go of even into adulthood, I’ve held this tree near to me for as long as I can remember. The texture of the rope beneath my fingers is a comfort if touched lightly in passing. It can burn if I linger too long, or push too hard.
I’ve never been quite sure what kind of tree it would be if it were made of sap and bark instead of woven fibers. Sometimes I wonder if that’s because I couldn’t tell a maple from an oak, or any other kind of tree. It’s closest to an evergreen, the only tree I could probably name by sight. Still, despite the tight array of knots, it has a wildness.
I can go most days without thinking of it. I imagine it sleeps. It must be peaceful, kept safe and secure while drifting off through a sea of dreams. Knots don’t dream. I do though, and that kind of peaceful sleep I long for during long restless days.
The nights I retrieve the tree from its secret place, I often don’t realize I’m reaching for it until it’s in my hands. It’s never the same as the last time I remember it. It grows and it shrinks. I’m not sure what time does to it, but I’ve held knots in my hand that unravel at three words.
I miss you.
I love you.
I forgive you.
Forgiveness has the most power. Those knots don’t just loosen, waiting for me to pick them apart. They unravel themselves, slipping like dust between my fingers. Most often I have to study them the longest to understand what those three words mean.
Then there are nights where I find new knots. Ones I give myself rope-burn from, trying to understand its existence, its roots, and finding it unmoving. Even if I could speak those three words, and sometimes I try, the knot holds fast. There’s no pattern to predict the next one, or how it will change the shape or weight of the tree in my hands. For each one that unravels, it seems to make room for another to take hold. Bundles and bundles, little and large, create a woven web I’m not sure I’ll ever see wholly undone.
Each time I put the tree of knots away, and close the door of my bedside table, I close my eyes. The silent prayer is always different but always ends the same way. Breathing out the final word, I try, maybe too hard or maybe not hard enough, to let those knots be held by hands not my own in the hopes they may unravel more than I can tie.
Brooke Stemme is a writer based in Kansas. She is the author of two novels, Stars Above and Imprinted, originally published under her maiden name—Brooke Tiedt. Her work has also appeared in literary magazines and anthologies including Bright Flash Literary Review, All the Vacant Places, and Among Other Worlds. Home-made chai concentrate, dogs, and a smattering of art supplies can always find a place in her home.
 | A guest post by
|