The clock strikes—
A deep, booming knell.
A grandfather clock.
My grandfather died,
With that in his house
Never striking the correct
I knew my grandfather less
Than I'd have liked. When he died,
My mother became executor-of-the-estate;
A job she didn't want, but had to take.
And so we all ended up with something:
Me, a computer on which to write, and read, and learn;
My brother, a watercolor painting to hang in his room
Of a misty, cold, pale morning. And all of us, we
Got the clock.
We repaired it; had men called
The Clock Doctors in to recalibrate it,
To stroke its gears and sound its chords, to puzzle over
The thing my grandfather made out of a kit
With his bare hands.
I've never been sure why we repaired
That old clock; but its striking has become a part
Of my life now.
In some ways, I think
We were trying to bring a bit more order
Into our shattered
AN) Anyone who knows a way to get this to stop double-spacing where I don't want it to, I'd appreciate suggestions. Thanks!