Grandfather Clock ticks away in the parlor. His polished cherry cabinet gleams in the sunlight that shines through the east window. His hands chase each other around his brass face in a futile race with no finish line.
Grandfather Clock’s tick is a constant rhythm in an always changing household. His bright hourly chime serves as a condolence to anyone grieving and a cheer for anyone rejoicing. It’s a familiar comfort to those who dwell in the house.
Grandfather Clock has witnessed more in his lifetime than any human, though he has never left the family home. He has observed five generations of departures and homecomings, five generations of weddings and parties, five generations of deaths, and five generations of births. He remembers countless humid, swelling summers, crisp, lively autumns, dark, dry winters, and fragrant, temperate springs.
He reminisces about sweet, simple moments, like the day the little girl found a wounded sparrow in the backyard and nursed it back to health, gently cooing and singing to it each day until it could spread its wings and return to the open blue sky. He recalls the overwhelming, joyous news that the young soldier would be coming home from the war and the painful sobs that followed the news that his brother wouldn’t be.
Grandfather Clock has lived a full and vivid life but recently, he has changed. It takes more effort for his gears to spin. He must be wound more often than ever and requires more and more maintenance each year.
He knows that one day, he will slow to a complete stop and his steady tick will cease. But until then, he’ll keep ticking.
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