I'm tying something—

I'm tying something—

I don't even notice at first—

and my fingers move through

the knot

like my hands are reading

from a script

they learned before I was born.

Over, under,

loop, pull tight.

My hands know this.

My hands know this

in a way my brain can't explain.

I watch them work

like they belong to someone else,

like I'm not the one deciding

where the rope goes,

and I realize

I'm doing it exactly

the way you showed me,

exactly the way your hands moved

when you were teaching me

to hold the line right,

to make it stay.

Your hands are gone now.

You're gone now.

But my hands remember

the shape of your teaching,

the patience in your grip,

the way you guided mine

into the right angle.

I finish the knot.

It's perfect.

It's exactly what you would have done.

And I'm angry at my hands

for knowing this,

for being faithful to a lesson

I'm trying to forget.

I'm angry that my body

is a museum of you,

that my fingers are still

walking through the rooms

of your instruction,

that some part of me

refuses to let you go.

I untie it.

I tie it again.

My hands make the same knot,

the same way,

the same shape.

I give up.

I leave it tied.