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My father had a penchant for untying knots: string, fishing line, fine chains, cord and rope all yielded their involutions to his persistence and came free again, extending to their full lengths, sinuous and supple. I remember him peering down through his bifocals, lips pursed in an expression of imperious disdain like a Mongol king hearing commoners in a case brought before him for arbitration, unraveling their fates. I guess someone had to do it. And I remember too his fingernails, animal in their strength, directing their crablike pincing exactitude to the tiny looping problems they held: a little tug here, reorient the knot for inspection, another tug there, this time with a bit of a twist... But honestly, I never understood why he bothered. Cut the knot and get on with it, I thought: plenty more line on the reel, plenty more string on the ball. I tried undoing them and it seemed so hard. I watched as he worked, but nothing seemed to happen until suddenly it was done, his fingers pulling the strands out in a web. It was as through those knots just fell apart from fatigue, no match for his patience and lordly resolve. Just knots, yes, but what I didn’t guess then was how long I would spend unraveling my own knots, a lifetime of loops and curlicues to follow and guess and tug at, seeing what will give, how this connects with that, what’s binding what, and eventually I would receive my daughters’ knotted shoelaces and bunched-up necklaces with a grim smile, and pull apart those knots with the rich pleasure of necessity, because this is easy, really: all it takes is a little time.