It sat over the fireplace. An ornate clock, coppery gold with a large face and two keys to wind it. My father's job. Almost like a meditation, every morning he would take the key and wind. The soft gear turning was my signal that all would be well. Everyday, the key, the winding, my father. The world orbiting as it was supposed to.
I would stand on my toes and watch the clock hands turn and if I was lucky, I would be there for the hour ding. The click first, as if the hand were getting ready for a big job. Then the ding. Every hour.
I own that clock now. When my brother and I were cleaning out my father's place, and were being kind to each other, I pointed to the clock and he nodded yes. It got packed up and sent back East in one of the 13 boxes of stuff that I couldn't live without. I'm the sentimental one.
On the Tuesday morning I was to leave California and all the things that were familiar to me from childhood, knowing whatever I left behind would be gone forever, I grabbed the quilt and blanket off the bed I had been sleeping in and thrust them at my brother, asking him to please pack them up and send them to me. That's what I mean about being sentimental.
I've always lived in small spaces. My bedroom growing up was the smallest room in the house. It was supposed to be my brother's room, but the painter made a mistake and painted it pink. It became mine.
Living in New York City all my apartments were small, so I developed the ability to live compactly and without a lot of stuff.
Our house in Ithaca is compact too. My husband waited with trepidation for the 13 boxes to arrive, wondering where they would all go. I just smiled and told him not to worry.
They started to arrive two or three at a time. I unpacked them as quickly as possible, but got diverted with memories as I carefully unwrapped the green depression glass plates, tea cups and saucers that my mother had eaten off of when she was a child. The wine red and green pottery vases that were as familiar to me as my right hand. The white fluted bone china that my parents had purchased in London in the mid-50's. Dinner plates, lunch plates, soup bowls, dessert bowls and plates, tea cups, saucers, demitasse cups and saucers, serving dishes, gravy bowl, sugar bowl and creamer. Twelve of each dish. I like a challenge
I set the clock on top of the piano and smiled. I ran my fingers across the now tarnished body that was more brown than gold. As if I were still that little girl waiting for the clock to chime, and with great anticipation I opened the glass covering of the face, took the key and turned it. And, nothing. No satisfying gear turn, no click, no ding.
No father to ask how to do it. No father to ask.
No father. Mute like the clock. No click, no ding. Never again.
