The clock has been

handed down, mother-to-daughter.

It was once your

great-grandmother's, one day

it may be mine.

Yet it remains

silent. The broken gears mute

the double face. It will take time, but shouldn't

it be fixed?

Fixed so it can be heard

by both you and I again.

Why don't we prise

off the fragile

glass lid

and see what went wrong—

it might get messy

but I need you

to get past that. Sometimes

we need messy.

Some family legacies

shouldn't be passed

along. You couldn't

do it alone.

Neither can I.