I Have this Knot

In the very middle of my stomach, there is a knot. It is not food poisoning or cramps and I have not been exercising strenuously.

I woke up this morning at 6:15. As I dropped my legs over the edge of the bed, I thought, When I’m back at work, I’ll have been up for 45 minutes by now. As I trudged down the stairs, past Trombone’s room I thought, When I’m back at work I’ll have to be getting him up now, so that we’ll be on time. I poured my coffee and a cool breeze blew in the kitchen window and it smelled like morning and I thought, I only have four weeks left to enjoy morning. And then I noticed the knot.

It is not, as you might expect, a knot of fear or dread or sadness. I have picked it apart to its core, examining its strands against my carpet with a magnifying glass and I have determined this: it exists because I am his mother. That is the only reason I have this knot, sitting twisted below my ribcage and above my guts. But calling it the “only” reason makes it sound small, like a negligable knot. It is not. It is cast-iron heavy and solidly present. I would do well to be as present as my knot.

It sounds like this: slow down, slow down, sit still, be with me, let me stroke your hair, go, be free, be wonderful.

It is gleeful when he climbs the stairs, when he claps his hands, when he finds every duck on every page of every book on the shelf. It keeps me from hovering. It reminds me not to gasp every time he bumps a head or twists an ankle because if I do not gasp, fifty percent of the time he does not know he is hurt.

My knot will be with me forever. It will always tighten a little when he smiles, reaches for me, pushes me away. That’s just the way knots are.