It stood in the vast front hallHot Texas sun bleaching its wood.Silent,Tall,A brassy moon face peering out fromBehind the glass.Even on six-year-old tip toesI couldn’t quite see the words And the numbers.It had been the pride Of the white pillared mansion.Already a hundred years oldWhen it was purchased in London.A honeymoon gift of loveTraveling by ship to aNew country in a new century.Why doesn’t it run?I asked.My white-haired aunt With tiny wire glassesAnd flower print dress Would just shake her head.
Ticking her life away
She said.Time moved it to Grandma’s house.To the grand room with the red velvet benchAnd the horsehair couch.Every summer it gazed at meAs I watched cartoonsAnd ate oatmeal cookies.Mama’s little house was next.Weathered and beaten it stoodJust inside the screen door.Still silent. Growing older still.Another move to ArizonaBefore Mama died.One of its legs now broken,The pendulum long missing.Propped up on bricks. The estate lady called it Firewood.But my six-year-old heart Loved it. Like she loved the white hairedAunt.And the beautiful grandmaAnd the beloved mama.Never could it be firewood.So sixty years after standing on tiptoesAnd peering at the brassy moon faceI brought it to my home.To my modern white tiled front hallTo bask in balmy California light.Only this time to live again.Even though it hadn’t made a sound in moreThan a hundred years,I found a man to save it.Who saw its tattered beauty.Its works still intact.And soon, with a little loveAnd faithIt chimed! Not a deep Big Ben soundBut a bright, light tingOf a ship’s bell From 200 years past.A new pendulum counting the seconds.The brassy moon face moving with Each day and each weekRevealing children runningAnd playing among flowers. The wood gently polishedThe leg carefully repaired.No longer was it ticking a life away.No longer a forgotten memory.It now became the heartbeat Of my home.
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