Our Grandfather's Clock

My wooden body hides within a prism of history. My bronze face attempts to be concealed behind the glass. Many look at me and wonder why a metal symbolizing mediocrity was picked to be my visage. The simple answer is that is all we had. Matter of fact that’s all he had. 

My builder, my creator, and my father was a man who had an affinity for members of my family and members of his own. My cousins are worn around the wrists of the labor men whose fathers knew his personally. My father wanted a challenge, so he made me out of the trees and metals he could find. I became his prized possession. My value may not have meant much on the markets, but I carry a greater sense of purpose. As I passed down from generation to generation, my builder wanted me to be a testament to his love of family. And that I shall be to the bitter end. 

I have been the known voyeur of the most intimate of moments. My hands held my father’s time in order when his fourth child was born. I overheard excitement when his oldest was accepted to college on the other side of the nation. As he and his wife stared at me wondering where the time went, I whispered in broken succession ticks and tocks. I heard them and they heard me too. 

I spent years collecting dust, my wood yearned and croaked of old age. My builder was no more, his funeral was too far, and my body too heavy to take me. The family swears that I knew he was gone. I skipped an hour as he took his last breath. And though I, too, felt the pain of loss, I promised him I would reign longer. I would maintain my status as a symbol of his love as long as possible. 

I followed this through, reaffirming my promise even when his wife died. And as his son took the role of patriarch I remained upright as strong as could be. But he was failing to protect his family. Not from the outside world, but from himself. 

My body trembled as his rage vibrated the stairs. He was leaving. The children couldn’t be seen to bid their father farewell. They were in abject fear and terror. They ran to console their mother, except for one. He remained hidden behind me. His face was wet with silent tears at the dysfunction of the family. The clamor of his hands allowed me to understand the question he was afraid to ask. Would he see his father again? I was a clock but the future I didn’t have access to. 

The years rolled on as my father’s son led a path of inconsistency. In and out he returned, no one understood what toll this would have on his family. No one except for me. The youngest of my father’s grandsons absorbed his own fears and never escaped the trauma he endured. The others used it as ammunition. His siblings moved out, wanting to free themselves of this place as quickly as they could. The youngest remained. My promise that I made seemed every passing day to be tested. I felt my wood twisting and splintering. My glass became filthier, I no longer could see the outside world. Yet still, I rise, the noise that erupts periodically remains. 

“Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.”

Another generation rolls by as I only have two indicators of a new day. The first is the time I keep, and the other is the light that rises and falls sporadically. Its silhouette I see dancing in front of me. But not much else seems to capture the allure of my eye. 

The youngest of my father’s grandchildren isn't the youngest anymore. He has a family of his own. And has taken all the traits that his father had and more. His diet has grown year by year to include alcoholic beverages, I suppose it’s to quell the pain of not having a stable upbringing. I wish I could tell him more than just the time that he sees on his phone. I’ve become nothing more than decoration. As my splinters grow bolder and more pronounced, he rubs the coarse exterior. It reminds him of something or someone. I can’t decipher which, as he looks at my face. He grabs a damp rag and wipes the dust away. Saying to himself in each stroke of cloth: “Where did the time go?” My silence confirms to him that I didn’t know. God knows his grandparents asked the same thing years ago. 

My eyes could see clearly after that moment, but I wished I remained blind. The world that surrounded me was so different, so despair-filled and lifeless. Singular bodies came in and out, walking past as I felt the rush of wind from the outside. This world was colder than my father envisioned it. Colder than even time expected, I knew I was failing in my promise. The family was lifeless with other words to describe us. I can’t remember when I felt an ounce of something that reminded me of my father. These people had moved beyond him. 

Yelling erupted the morning after as my father’s grandson argued with his wife. The two were engaged in intense discussion as once again the house quaked. With each raising of a voice, the table next to me shook. The argument came closer to me, as it bellowed in the room. He picked up a chair and threw it to show his emotion. It flew right in my direction. 

Within an instant, the glass shattered. My face was dented with the weight of the furniture. Silence filled the airwaves as pieces of me broke and laid themselves on the ground. Tears began to fill his eyes when his face saw mine. I cracked under the weight and force of the chair. But I truly caved in from the weight of my failure, I should’ve known better.

The promises that I made were my lasting thoughts. He and the misses came to pick up my parts. The damage was already done. The family was nothing more. I had to face the reality of that. I was a fool to think that stationary furniture could save generations of people. Dysfunction had won. There was nothing I could do, dysfunction had won.