Whirr. Wheeze. Click, and then...

This beautiful old clock hangs in a cabin close to where my grandmother grew up, and it reminds me of her and the clock she had while she still lived on the farm.

It is an old wall piece that now hangs silently, high in one corner next to the gallery of children and grandchildren and great grandchildren smiling on confirmation days, graduation days, wedding days.

My grandmother had (and still has) a very crooked back from carrying water and hay, and she would reach very hard to wind the clock. Even as a child, the creaking of her once-strong joints next to the rattling of cogs and chains inside the wooden box saddened me. It made me wonder what the house would be like without her, and without the clock and its many voices.

The pendulum marked the passing of seconds with a hollow not-yet, not-yet. Every fifteen minutes, the clock whirred, wheezed, clicked and then gave a single, stern chime. Every hour it posed a question. Why are you still in bed? Why are you not yet asleep? Why do you accept that the seconds of your life are counted out and lost?

My only answer is that time, and clocks, and the inevitable ticking of seconds are important cogs in my story. Whirr. Wheeze. Click. Just hope the chime doesn't sound. Not yet, not yet.