ALL KNOTTED TOGETHER
ALM No.95, November 2026
ESSAYS
When our mother became frail, my sister gave up her queen-sized bed, slept on the couch, and cared for her at home. That kind of sacrifice is typical of my sister. She will also give you the shirt off her back, a jar of her homemade salsa, a pair of wool socks she’s knit, a poem she’s written, a kidney if you need it, and her heart—especially her heart. I had obligations as Mom’s health deteriorated, so I was relieved my sister took care of her, but I also felt guilty because I wanted to be the generous daughter. I knew Mom was happy living with my big sister in her clapboard house overlooking a secluded Maine inlet, where the ocean was luminous and ever-moving. When I visited in October 2013, I felt a familiar flash of love as I wrapped my arms around Mom, but also alarm, because she felt like a coat rack in my arms.
The morning after I arrived, the sky was a solid, heavy gray. By afternoon, the sun had pierced the branches, and dust danced in shafts of golden sunshine in my sister’s house. She has a talent for bringing the outdoors indoors. In one corner she’d mounded a basket with fragrant, dark pinecones. Despite their soothing, woodsy scent, Mom was restless, picking at her clothing with the jerky caution of a wild bird. So, my sister gave her skeins of yarn to roll. We sat looking out on conifers, white oak, red maple, and yellow aspen, which framed the sea like a postcard. The partially wound balls sat in Mom’s lap like Easter eggs, while my sister knitted and I worked on a cross-stitch design called Flowers and Lace. We talked about everything and nothing, and when Mom forgot what she’d just said, and what we’d just said, we simply repeated ourselves. When I left a few days later, Mom reminded me, as she always did, “You take care of yourself for me, and I’ll take care of myself for you.”
I didn’t want the last time I saw her to be the last time I saw her, but it was. Death is always unexpected, even when it’s not. I was heartbroken because I loved her, and worried because she held our family together no matter what. Over her 94 years, she’d been a dispenser of advice, a keeper of secrets, and a source of calm for my sister and me, despite our contrasting characters, opposing views, and different dispositions. My sister and I have a complicated history. Across seven decades, affection has curled around our hearts, pulling them together like Sweet Peas. But hurt, misunderstandings, and anger have taken root as well, clinching into tight, hard knots.
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When Mom died, I had the same responsibilities as before: a career coordinating autism research, a husband, three adolescent sons, one neurodivergent, and a home across the country. So once again, my sister took charge. She wrote Mom’s obituary, composed her life story, and collected pictures for her funeral program. Once again, I felt left behind. And when you’re behind death, there is no easy way to catch up. I finally thought up a personal way to say my last goodbye. I turned the cross-stitch canvas I’d been working on, with its floribunda roses, pink dahlias, lavender, and geometric lacy border, into a pillow for Mom’s coffin. The day of her funeral, Mom’s tiny body lay on a satin mattress in her casket, motionless as a piece of furniture in a vacant house. I leaned down and touched her face, usually amused and lively, now forever expressionless, and placed the pillow on her silent heart. From a distance, it looked like she was holding a bouquet. It was a weird thing to do, but I wanted to send her off with whatever she might need for a comfortable afterlife.
Now it’s 2026, and I’ve just completed the same needlepoint for my 73-year-old sister. It took me ages, so I hope it reminds her how much I love her too. I framed her Flowers and Lace canvas in a delicate pink-and-cream mat and cherry frame. When it arrived in Harpswell, she texted me six heart emojis and said, “Sister, your handwork is magnificent…it’s you and me and Mama…all knotted together.” Yes, all knotted together. That’s what the complicated lives of mothers, daughters, and sisters are. If you’re climbing a mountain, a knotted rope can save your life. Once you’re off the mountain, a knot may be the pain in your neck. Over the years, my Mom, sister, and I have sent each other lifelines, and sometimes we've all gotten tangled up in each other’s business, especially when we shouldn’t. I’ve learned from experience that you can’t boss around the human heart.
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The instructions from my sister's needlepoint kit are crumpled and discolored, and the printed floral design and instructions are barely legible: 1. Sort the colors. 2. Look at the chart and key. 3. Take your first stitch. 4. Work the cross-stitches. 5. Stitch the details. 6. Clean the design. 7. Frame the design. It took me hours, months, and finally years to finish item four: work the cross-stitches. In the meantime, I had to figure out how to retire, care for my husband as Parkinson's relentlessly took hold, spend time with our far-flung sons, plant flowers, read books, and manage all the other little domestic chores that filled long stretches of my trivial days. Despite those interruptions, I am a finisher.
My sister, on the other hand, is more of a starter. She does this with unbridled enthusiasm. Her remarkable blue eyes, framed by oversized glasses and silvered hair, communicate her moods long before her words do, and shine even brighter when she is excited, which is most of the time. She started: 1. her family at nineteen, instead of thirty-five, like me, 2. a variety of careers, 3. a one-acre farm with chickens, ducks, tomatillos, marijuana plants, Maine Coons and Yorkies, 4. several passionate romances. My sister has so many feelings inside her; she is like a pile of kindling, just waiting for that first, hot spark. No matter her age, love makes her giddy, love makes her brave, and love makes her reckless. And sometimes, love makes her forget who she’s already given her heart to. Still, if you are lucky enough to have been loved by my sister, you will know what it's like to be completely loved.
She also has a hankering for chaos and has never believed being reasonable is a reasonable request. If a little bit of something is good, too much is better. On her farm, a few chickens turned into dozens, and a plan to breed and sell Maine Coons got out of hand when she couldn’t bear to part with any of the kittens. Before long, the tufted-eared little darlings piled up on every surface like furry pillows, scaled pant legs like tree trunks, and hung from the rafters. No matter how many my sister is cooking for, she doubles the recipe. Maybe what she really needs is a pig to eat her leftovers, but then where would she keep all her ducks? Come to think of it, some of her Coons resemble upholstered porkers.
My sister’s approach to life goes beyond starting new projects. An inheritance from a midlife partner made her wealthy, and she is unbelievably generous. She bought her three daughters' houses and kindly gave my husband and me money when we moved from Arizona to Utah and remodeled a hundred-year-old Tudor. I worry she may not set aside enough to be as generous or as solvent as she wants, or needs, to be in the future. Still, I didn’t say, “Darling, I couldn’t possibly take your money,” when she sent me a check to help with our kitchen renovation. It’s just that sometimes she loves other people as much as she loves her kids and me. And maybe she would like to buy them a car, boat, or house, too. I’m concerned about her seemingly inexhaustible gift-giving. I really am.
That’s not all I worry about. When life becomes predictable, my sister often grows restive and launches herself into something new. She may not be aiming at anything in particular. Sometimes she throws things off balance just to see if she can put them back together another way. And when everything leans dangerously askew, she leans into the tilt. A bee allergy, the kind that triggers anaphylaxis, doesn’t keep her from keeping several hives at her farm. She needs pollinators, and they certainly do their job. My sister harvests enough produce to feed all the lumberjacks in Maine, even after her ducks, chickens, and visiting raccoons, deer, porcupines, and skunks have eaten more than their fair share. She happily digs in the dirt, her face shiny from sunshine and sweat, as bees bounce from one heirloom tomato plant to another just inches away.
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In many ways, we’re alike. After all, sisters are different flowers from the same garden. We’re both about five feet two, comfortably plump, and wear denim, corduroy, and sensible shoes. We love animals, growing things, BritBox mysteries, and books. Our voices have a similar cadence. But my sister likes Angry Birds; I prefer Wordle. She is motivated by intuition and drama. I am analytical. My sister thrives on intentional tension. My instinct is to soothe ruffled feathers. My sister finds something new to see and do around every corner. I’m happy to watch a documentary. My sister believes nothing is irretrievable, and everything is within reach. I don’t. My sister is really good at feelings. She feels everything all the time. I rarely cry at movies. Still, despite our differences, love and history bind us tight.
Perhaps the biggest difference between us is that my sister is an adrenaline junkie and I’m not. I’m more like my great-grandmother, who, when assisted off the roller coaster at Pacific Ocean Park in the 1950s, told the ride operator, “You ought to be arrested.” She is a mountain raven, flying at high speed through rocky, windy cracks for fun, while I am a beaver, content to take as long as it takes to build a snug lodge with small sticks. I am comforted by the consuming details of finishing a needlepoint, deadheading my roses, and writing about the sometimes dangerous details of domestic life. We are incompatible and inextricably bound at the same time. Our lives are not tied together with a pretty bow, but they’re tied together all the same. We are decidedly different, stubbornly connected, and impossible to unravel.
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Of course, we're all more than one thing. When my sister isn’t showing off her acrobatic flying skills or granting wishes like a Fairy Godmother, she resembles an octopus. I have only one heart; she has three. My sister can hug you very hard, hold you very tight, and, with her camouflage and shape-shifting skills, mold her life into a variety of scenarios. None can contain her. Each becomes a more expansive outline, dissolving the ones before. Some people go to therapy to learn how to manage their boundaries; my sister admits she has none. Still, I never want to lose sight of her, even when she is barely recognizable.
When we were kids, I idolized my big sister, running and tumbling after her like a little duckling. I was also a drag on her far-ranging social life, so she usually left me behind when she went out with her older, edgier friends. Eventually, I learned how to get the attention I craved. I would provoke her big emotions, which made me feel like I had some control over them. It was like popping a balloon before it blew up in my face, whacking a hornet's nest with a stick, or poking a fierce-furred bear before running away. When the dusting of freckles on her cheeks bloomed like a strawberry patch mid-summer, I’d say something like, “You forgot to dry your face, and now it’s rusty.” Her anger would surge like a tsunami, and she’d lunge at me while I slipped away like a beaver into a pond. Unaware of my carefully timed provocation, Mom, who believed in good manners, good behavior, and simple justice, would punish my sister, while I looked on unscathed and triumphant. I was worse than devious; I was annoying. Even then, I knew my sister was vulnerable, a victim of her passions and a victim of those of us who know how to provoke them.
Now, sometimes I’m afraid for her. She doesn’t hesitate on the precipice when, once again, she feels the urge to surf an invisible current of wind and perform mid-air dives. Instead, she pursues her fully formed dreams and half-formed plans without looking back. How can she know I’m standing behind her, wringing my little beaver hands, or hear me slap my tail on the water with a loud crack to warn her she’s about to fall off a cliff? I watch her take a deep breath before she turns toward me. “Look,” she says, spreading her arms. “Look what I can do!” And then, in the grip of her emotions, she jumps.
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It’s been thirteen years since Mom died, and I miss her cheerful attentiveness. These days I see her in my dreams and when her pictures pop up on my digital photo frame. Images of my restless sister, spanning our years together and apart, also loop on my Skylight display. These days I rarely hear from her, although she is never far from my thoughts: a presence, a light, a memory, an ache. I want her to be happy, and she assures me she is, so her most recent disappearance is a complicated kind of grief.
There’s not much I can do to calm my agitated heart, so I’ve decided to make another Flowers and Lace needlepoint to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied. This one will be for me. I located the same kit on Etsy for $60 and another on eBay for $185—pricey for what you get: a square of even-weave fabric, a needle, thread, and a new set of instructions. I really need those new instructions. Maybe these cross-stitch projects- the one in Mom’s coffin, the one in Harpswell, and the one I’m working on here in Salt Lake City- will tie us together, metaphorically. Otherwise, my fiercely independent sister will get out her scissors and snip, snip, snip any ties that bind.
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When my sister hangs Flowers and Lace in her country house, I hope she sees a small window. If she looks through that cherry frame long enough, perhaps she’ll see a protected, country garden with floribunda roses, pink dahlias, and lavender. Maybe she’ll even see us. We’ll be gathering our diet sodas, Mountain Dew and Dr. Pepper, and our handiwork: her knitting and my counted cross-stitch. The air will be moist and sweet, and we’ll find a sunny spot in a granite-and-juniper pasture. Our hips will creak as we lower them into our burlap chairs. Her needles will tap, tap, tap, like the language of rabbits and deer, and I’ll examine my needlepoint canvas, stretched tight in a hoop, with eyes a completely different blue than hers.
Surrounded by the textured woodland and the briny smell of the cove, under a far and distant sky, our hearts will loosen their worries, wrinkles, and knots. We’ll talk about everything and nothing, and some things more than once. Our conversation will echo everything we’ve said to each other since we first learned to talk. When we were young, we didn’t know what we could or couldn’t do, or who we would or wouldn’t leave behind. But now we do, so we’ll know when to change the subject, because some things never change. At our ages, my sister and I have a lot to look back on. Our well-rehearsed narratives and a scrim of amnesia have made some memories hazy, others selective, and a few have been altered to fit the world as we’d like it to be. Our words will be like tiny bits of torn-up paper lifting from our hearts, which hover just before our eyes before scattering away, as though caught on a wind.
Families are a long, slow story, and of our own creation. In all their variety, and soap-operatic drama, they are sagas of chaos, contentment, conflict, and comedy. Families become archivists of the future. If we’re lucky, families are where we learn to be human, more than just our instincts and inclinations, and yet entirely ourselves. I know one thing for certain. My sister and I are who we are, through and through, so there will be surprises ahead. Even more surprising is that in our family’s story, with its flawed characters, simmering conflicts, and convoluted plots, one mom could love both a mountain raven and a beaver. On that, we agree.
Sharman Ober-Reynolds was born in LA and completed an MFA at Arizona State University. She is primary author of The FRIEND Program for Creating Supportive Peer Networks for Students with Social Challenges, including Autism. Sharman received the League of Utah Writer’s Olive Woolley Bert and Silver Typewriter Awards and her work was short-listed in the 9th Annual Adelaide Literary Magazine Award Contest. Her creative non-fiction has appeared in bioStories, Adelaide Literary Magazine, and Storyhouse Weekly Reader. Read her creative non-fiction at www.sharmanoberreynolds.com.
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