The sound, so familiar , each hour on the hour, reminding us all. Pendulum swings left and right, synchronized and predictable, lyrical and fluid like the stream that bubbles outside.

Laughter emanates in the house, small and big voices alike, weaving in and out of the large brassy sound of the clock.

The wood has aged, much like the story the clock tells, dark and light stain, smell of oak and cherries.

I run my hand down the smooth edge of the wood, splinter pin pricks my finger, deep ruby dotting my finger.

Sunday, the clock says to me. I think of the sundays before, the years before, how many minutes, seconds, hours the clock has ticked by, what she has seen, how many lives.

 

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