Time Follows

I spent my last hours in New York staring at a clock. Not just any clock, though.

To me, this clock was magic.

My daddy was a peculiar man from a simple upbringing. Apparently he was the only one of his father's five children that wasn't a result of his infatuation with the workers on the farm. Because of this, my daddy had a hard time understanding why his brothers and sister would always be working in the field, or why his mama would tell him not to play with any of the children on the plantation. As he grew up, he started to promise himself to talk to the other children, maybe even invite them in the house for a little tea and some sandwiches. But then, one of his supposed brothers had been accused of trying to run away, and was supposedly taken to the back of the shed, never to be seen again. It was Daddy's youngest brother and sister who had successfully run away, with the help of Old Mister Langsten and Ms. Aubrom from down the road. Sadly, the last of Daddy's family died shortly after his father died in the Civil War. The last of his brothers had gone of to join the army along with most of the other men working on the plantation, and his Momma had passed away of Leukemia shortly after. Not only that, but my daddy had all but lost the plantation due to the lack of profit from all the workers quitting. My daddy didn't have a penny to his name, and he couldn't even keep one of his promises.

It was then that he decided that he wanted to do something with his life.

My father made sure to pack every cent of his inheritance and started for New York. There, he bought wood, gears, tools, paint, glass, and a wee hour of training from a skilled craftsman everyday. for the next six months, my daddy dedicated himself to creating a spectacular clock, one that would have all the beauty of Louisiana carved on its sides, and would produce the sweet melody of silver bells every time an hour struck. For the next six months, he lightened up a bit, went to Church, drank at the bar on Sundays, things like that. He even managed to get a part time job as a factory man. Eventually, He met my Momma, a lowell girl that polished the pots and pans he would meld. Eventually, she joined him in his little quest for creation, and in the process, they created something else. Me. Their little Mary Sue. Sadly, after my fifth birthday, my daddy suffered a serious injury at the pan factory, as he always called it, and since he seriously damaged his hand, he got laid off of his job. Maybe it was due to shock from the injury, the infection of the injury itself, or a broken heart of not finishing anything he had started, but my daddy passed away shortly after. My momma took it the hardest. Every night, after she had made me dinner and tucked me in, she would work up to three hours on that clock. She though I didn't know, but I would sneak down to the stairs and listen to her wrench cranking. She took to that clock for the next three years, until she finally finished it closed to my eighth birthday.

I never knew for sure what my parents' more valuable creation was: Me or that clock.

Now, here I was, looking at the thing that used to test my worth to my very parents, and that was now the one thing that brought me comfort in my last moments in my childhood home.

You see, my momma is getting older, and she wants to move on to something better than this little apartment here in the city. It was a Saturday afternoon when she decided to tell me we were moving. She had already been saving money to take the train, and she told me to pack my bags. She said that we would most likely go to Louisiana, where my daddy was born.

She had always wanted to see the beautiful place that inspired that clock.

To my surprise, my momma didn't want to bring the clock with us. She said that Daddy had started it in New York, and that it should remain in the place that he had found content.I didn't agree with her, but that didn't seem to matter. She barely made out as much as three words a day to me during the time we were preparing to move.I think she was just busy. So, I spent the last three hours of my time in New York staring at the clock that held so much of my parents. So much of them that I couldn't reach. It was about 10:10 PM when my momma called, "Mary Sue, we're getting on the train."

We didn't bring the clock.

I am not disappointed. Just, uneasy. I remember walking down the little corridor of our small apartment and passing it, waiting for the little chimes of the singing bells. I remember giggling under the covers as my parents swore from the basement every time a gear snagged their fingers.

It would be hard, leaving those memories behind, but it was probably for the best.

We got off the train early in the Morning. Louisiana wasn't quite what I was expecting. The way Momma talked about it, I pictured a vast meadow with moss covered trees lining the edges. Instead, the first thing to hit me was the thick soup that surrounded every inch of me. The mosquitoes were awful as well. Every five seconds the tiny pests could be found stuck to my elbow, or shin. The grass, instead of being a thick, luscious green, was peppered with tiny flowers and stickers and dew. My shoes and socks were soaked, ripped, tattered and stained by the time we reached the large house. This was my daddy's home alright.

Its been five years since then. My Momma died earlier this month. I'm worried about finding a job this far down south. I may lose the house if I don't find something. I am starting to question if I should sell the house and start all over.

Or maybe I don't have to be so rash so soon. Maybe I have something of value back at home. Maybe I could pay a visit to my old home in New York. Maybe pay an old friend a visit.