A grandfather clock in a white tile hallway.
 
 It stood in the vast front hall
 Hot Texas sun bleaching its wood.
 Silent,
 Tall,
 A brassy moon face peering out from
 Behind the glass.
 Even on six-year-old tip toes
 I couldn’t quite see the words 
 And the numbers.
  
 It had been the pride 
 Of the white pillared mansion.
 Already a hundred years old
 When it was purchased in London.
 A honeymoon gift of love
 Traveling by ship to a
 New country in a new century.
  
 Why doesn’t it run?
 I asked.
 My white-haired aunt 
 With tiny wire glasses
 And flower print dress 
 Would just shake her head.
 Ticking her life away
 She said.
  
 Time moved it to Grandma’s house.
 To the grand room with the red velvet bench
 And the horsehair couch.
 Every summer it gazed at me
 As I watched cartoons
 And ate oatmeal cookies.
  
 Mama’s little house was next.
 Weathered and beaten it stood
 Just inside the screen door.
 Still silent. 
 Growing older still.
  
 Another move to Arizona
 Before Mama died.
 One of its legs now broken,
 The pendulum long missing.
 Propped up on bricks. 
 The estate lady called it 
 Firewood.
  
 But my six-year-old heart 
 Loved it. 
 Like she loved the white haired
 Aunt.
 And the beautiful grandma
 And the beloved mama.
 Never could it be firewood.
  
 So sixty years after standing on tiptoes
 And peering at the brassy moon face
 I brought it to my home.
 To my modern white tiled front hall
 To bask in balmy California light.
  
 Only this time to live again.
 Even though it hadn’t made a sound in more
 Than a hundred years,
 I found a man to save it.
 Who saw its tattered beauty.
 Its works still intact.
  
 And soon, with a little love
 And faith
 It chimed! 
 Not a deep Big Ben sound
 But a bright, light ting
 Of a ship’s bell 
 From 200 years past.
  
 A new pendulum counting the seconds.
 The brassy moon face moving with 
 Each day and each week
 Revealing children running
 And playing among flowers. 
  
 The wood gently polished
 The leg carefully repaired.
 No longer was it ticking a life away.
 No longer a forgotten memory.
 It now became the heartbeat 
 Of my home.