This knot jumped from a board I was cutting.
It dropped to the floor, circled on its edge, slowed
and fell over.

I’ve come to know this knot. I’ve rubbed it, dropped
it, lost and ignored it.

This knot isn’t perfectly round or perfectly anything.
It’s dirty, and its edges are worn. A bug once lived in
this knot and left a small hole. I don’t mind; it gives
this knot some depth.

This knot is surrounded by thick bark. Sometimes on
some knots the bark falls off. The bark on this knot is
strong.

The knot’s board is the hardest-working shelf in the
house. I pack it with books, candles, keys and change;
it always finds room for more and never complains.
The knot itself sits idle. Too off keel for a coaster and
too light for a paperweight, its sole purpose is to
inspire, I guess.

But please do not worry about this knot – I don’t. Its
place is secure; its bark strong. My father’s gone, but
this knot is still strong.