Keeping Time

“What time is it?”

“You just asked me that a moment ago. It’s the same as before, only thirty seconds later.”

A few more moments went by, me engrossed in an exciting book.

“What time is it?”

“About five minutes later than before.” I answered, then kept reading.

“What time is it?


The book fell to the floor. I jumped off the sofa. “Why in the world are you asking me every few minutes what time it is? The time hasn’t changed that much. Tell me what you’re doing!”

My husband turned toward me, a key in his hand. “Winding the clocks. This one is five minutes fast, so I have to stop it and wait to start it again. The old German one in the dining room is slow, so I have make sure of the time so I can reset it to the correct time. And then the cuckoo clock is just not keeping good time. I think I need to take it to the clock guy to have it repaired, or maybe just cleaned. The chime and the hour don’t jive and the weights aren’t moving.” He stopped winding the clock, put the key above it, in the usual resting place on the top of the works.

John had recently received three of his uncle’s clocks. He now was in a mode of making sure they all chimed in sync, as if he was a railroad timekeeper.

Then suddenly John was gone. All his clocks remained, with me spying them every day. The hour he passed was the hour the clocks stopped. I don’t have the heart to wind them.

Some day I may start them again. The tick-tock will perhaps remind me of my husband’s puttering, making sure we are always in sync.

W/C 297