Weekly Writing Challenge: My favorite thing

Weekly Writing Challenge: A Few of My Favorite Things

There is a material item that plays an important part in my life. For too many years it hung ignored and dusty, relegated to the spare room. Now it is center in my most used room. It was rejected by Donkey and so it was dejected.

The problem was the noise, tick tick tick tick, even tho I never wound the chime. It never really mattered what made the noise, as long as it was mine.

The chime is unpleasant, clangy. It vibrates and grates, and now that I have discovered the pleasantries that are the light-sensitive clocks that stop chiming, ringing, or singing at bedtime, I’m afraid this clock will never chime the time again.

It has hung above my bed and it has hung in my living room. It’s in my living room now, but it’s always where I can tap to the tick.

Every thirty days I stick a key into the hole on the right side of the clock face and turn, turn, turn until it turns with that groan that tells me it’s geared and ready for another month of consistency.

It keeps metronomic time, impeccable perfection. It keeps time with time and lulls me into still silence, meditation, relaxation. It jumps the sheep that make me sleep.

I can see it from the living room, dining, room, and kitchen. I can hear it in every room. If I listen. Sometimes I go days without noticing the noise, but I notice when it stops, if I’ve missed the winding day by a day.

I received this clock as a Christmas gift years before I met Donkey. I had remarked about a memory of the old grandfather’s clock in my aunt’s house, and this was presented as a reminder of those carefree days sliding down the banister to get to the clock before it dongged its last ding.

Donkey knew nothing of the significance of the gift, just that this thing made noise and he didn’t like it. I wasn’t allowed to use it as a time piece, just a dust collector on the wall. Now it keeps me in the present.

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4 comments

  1. Thank goodness he didn’t know the significance or it could have ended up like an old childhood lamp given to me by my mother: smashed against the wall! I’m glad you still have it. 🙂

    1. I’m so sorry about your lamp. I hate to think about all the broken things we have lost to violence. Mine started his physical violence with me by throwing things (remotes, plates, chairs). Maybe throwing is the gateway drug to hitting…

      1. And all I did was step away from him. I wanted the argument to end. Instead, he grabs the lamp and tosses against the wall above my head. It IS a gateway to physical violence, to homicide. This crap isn’t taken seriously enough.

        1. No, it isn’t taken seriously. Objects shouldn’t be thrown any more than fists.

speak loudly, donkeys are sleeping

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