London has Big Ben striking on the quarter hour. And in my living room stands a grandfather clock with similar Westminster Chimes tolling the same fifteen minute intervals. On one hand, a beloved inheritance and, on the other, a reminder of my daughter and her family living in England.
The Clock
The grandfather clock tolled
thirteen, and I bit my lip bloody.
An heirloom resonating
the vibrato of mismanagement.
Late autumn, and I had cranked
its hands in reverse, falling back
into standard time
instead of stopping and waiting
for the world to catch up.
Like a surly sergeant it complained
with crusty language.
I wanted to right the error right away.
But deep in my gray matter I heard
my father sigh, "Leave it alone.
Within an hour it will be fine on its own."
Doubting Thomas me disputed
the memory. Fretful me impassioned
action. Mortified me agreed with speed.
In the end, I laced my fingers, ignored
the urge for correction, and cringed over
wrong cadences marking the quarter hours.
After 60 minutes of purgatory, the timepiece
finally rang true. Impassive as a Royal
Guard standing watch.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
