tock.

time flies when i share a meal with rusty.
her fingers are slowly becoming harder to manage,
they angle in different directions now.
it's hard to open jars and hold two cups.
she allows me to wind her clocks, which feels oddly familiar.
not because i ever wound the clocks growing up,
but because it feels like i'm sinking into my roots,
like i'm coming closer to who my father is and who my grandfather was.
or maybe i should say who my father was.
thirtyone years he wound clocks and made magic
happen for those intricate little pieces.
his fingers are so thick and his hands are so large,
i don't know how he did it, day after day.
i suppose it was a labor of love
where his commitment and knowledge allowed for a skill
to fix things, making them better.

i grew up with grandfathers and grandmothers and anniversaries and
carriages and regulators. brackets and tambours and schoolhouses.
their nightly noise became soothing; to not have them would bring
unfamiliarity to my slumber.

when i go to wherever my dad makes his home,
there's always the sweet sound of his clocks.
we have to turn them off for guests
as they've not known the pendulum's swing
to soothe and comfort,
but rather to annoy and distract.

but rusty knows.
and so does my late grandfather,
and my father.
they understand the warmth and ease
of the repetition.