The Clock | Teen Ink

The Clock

January 26, 2023
By Anna_Grace GOLD, New Paltz, New York
Anna_Grace GOLD, New Paltz, New York
16 articles 0 photos 0 comments

The Clock

I used to press my lips together,

Tighter than a tomb in the glimmering mirror,

In a house cinnamon-warm forever,

No one could ever fear her.

To make it perfect, that shade of crimson red

A Goldilocks tale just-right.

She had to lift me up then,

Because I never reached her height.

From the time I could love,

I tapped my head on her knees, 

She was the only one, who no matter what, 

Truly believed in faeries.

 


Every third evening at twelve 

She wound the gears

Of the three grandfather bells 

Chiming silver whisper clear

Every morning she woke like this,

Like a cadet off to the front lines,

To a tiny kitchen now a memory of mist

To bake a river of apple pies

Every day at 11, New York time,

She’d sway to a beat-up radio,

Bathed in golden light 

Like she was off at a Broadway show.

 


So she wound the clock

And for a moment then time stopped

So she tended the lawn

So she’d never be gone

So I wouldn’t lose my rock, 

So the key twisted in the lock

So the world shone with gloss

So I would never be lost

 


Now, I stand tall, alone never

In a pane of polished glass,

And crush my lips together 

Wishing I knew how to make it last,

This last hurdle, last trial, 

Crossing of a rumbling wooden bridge,

Taking with it my final 

Hope of a magical wish

This lifeblood red that I pray won’t run out, 

A stream that won’t stop,

As it strikes eleven twenty seven now,

On the grandfather clock

 


She started dancing slowly at two,

Winding the clock at ten to four.

We were all blind fools,

Ignoring stray gray hairs on tiled floors

So she set aside every patient loom

Of needlework and crocheting,

She set aside her Sunday crossword in gloom,

Because now the pen was shaking

Every morning then, I sat next to her, 

Chuckling about unimportant things,

My hands filled in that crossword, 

As we spoke about wishing we had wings

 


So I wind the clock, 

Although time has stopped

So I live past dawn, 

Although it all feels wrong

So a line’s been crossed, 

So she’s lost, she’s lost,

So it’s been so long, 

So she says, “Go on, my dear, go on.”


The author's comments:

This is a poem about the tiny facets of grief that most people don't discuss and the incredibly specific eccentricities of people that make them human


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