28 01 2008

Every evening my father would wind the antique steeple clock from his childhood home: a spare, chapel-like timepiece with a warm wind-up sound of whirring motors whenever the half-hour’s single and the hour’s multiple chimes approached. When we moved house to the Maine coast each summer, my mother would wrap it in soft towels and place it in the trunk of the car where kids and cat wouldn’t jostle it during the long drive. Still, it seems to me that for days its voice was husky, its tick prickly as it eased its way into a slower pace of life.




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