How many times have I heard this one clock tick and I never thought to count it before? A lifetime spent in this house with this clock, a lifetime of watching my father turn the small key, a lifetime of reliable rolling out hours, and I never thought it was important.
How many ticks went unheard because the walls of the house intervened? How many did I hear and not parse? How many have I listened to while trying to fall asleep on the couch? How many more are allotted to me?
I wonder what tick is waiting for your first and my last, and just how dispassionately the clock counts out our mortality. It will rumble onward after we are gone.
Its grinding indicates a tone is coming. It rings out one. Another day encroaches. All I can hear is the incessant tick tock of time.
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