Sunday, January 15, 2012

In the interim


While I chimed like a grandfather clock, my grandson† watched the movement of my tongue as if it were a pendulum. To his rapt attention, hour upon hour I tolled, until I became a horse’s hooves on cobblestone, and the mist arose, and Dickens was at the door. “I’m here!” the dear scribe cried, as if he’d joined us many times before. And, as he eyed us with a pleasure I clearly understood, the movers came and carted me away. “He was a good old clock,” their foreman said, “back in his day. I wonder what we’ll get for him?” The truck roared off. My grandson, a grown man in the interim, looked after us and waved. Or so I imagined in the cold and in the dark.

our second, nine months old


6 comments:

Jonathan Chant said...

I really liked this entry William. Great image and atmospheric...

William Michaelian said...

Thank you, and thanks for reading, Jonathan. It was born of the moment and I almost had to drop the poor boy in order to write it down. But soon enough, his intensity was diverted by a small piece of cheddar cheese.

vazambam (Vassilis Zambaras) said...

In this, the latest chapter of My Life as a Grandfather Clock, we finally get a glimpse of what makes William tick.....and it knocks the tocks off us!

William Michaelian said...

My goodness — you seem as wound up about it as I do!

erin said...

if you'd have dropped him, he'd of been born to grown man legs.

you take us to the places we are already headed toward, only you take us in a breath. i feel rather like the snowflake in this one, william. actually, in all of your writing.

i was watching the snow fall the other day. it appeared as though it was a single organism. however, when i chose to look, to really see, it was each one independent and naughty. well, not quite naughty, but it was fun to think so. you blow me singularly in new directions and yet the whole organism of snow remains.

xo
erin

William Michaelian said...

Erin, it seems to me that we’re fellow flakes on our way down. A breath of wind might be a decade; a gust the death or birth of a child. So much to learn and do, even while we melt.