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