The Clock

absence of time

   A few days ago, this is what part of my wall looked like. Nothing to get upset about. I mean, it’s just a blank space on a wall, right? Hang something up there and move on. Simple. An easy fix.

   Not so much. The clockThis is what was supposed to be there. That clock has hung on every living room of every home I’ve lived in since I was 19 years old. It’s a decent looking clock. I fell in love with how the gold numbers and hands contrasted with the dark wood. I really love the seascape, although I do regret the death of the starfish. That clock doesn’t lose more than a minute a year. But all those details isn’t what makes it so special.

   I bought it at a yard sale on a cool, sunny day. But the weather doesn’t make it special either.

   I know exactly which house, on which block, of which town it came from. The previous owner has long since passed away. But that’s not what makes this clock so special either.

   I drove a baby blue, 1980, Datsun 210 back then. Datsun changed their name to Nissan in 1986. But all that isn’t the point of this story.

   I don’t recall the conversation between my mom and I that day. Although I do recall that the woman at the yard sale lowered the price of the clock by $5.00. My mom laughed when she did it.

   I didn’t think about all those details when I bought my clock. It was one of the few days that my mom and I had where we just drove around, not doing much of anything. And that’s what makes this clock so special.

   Neither my mom nor I live in the small town of Madison, Florida, where this clock was purchased, anymore. The house has changed hands who knows how many times. But as long as this clock keeps on tickin’, and I can remember, that ordinary day will remain special.

   I tell my kids the story. I hope one day, it will hang on one of their walls, and they will tell their kids and their kids and grandkids about the crazy woman who held onto a clock for more than thirty years because it reminded her of a day when nothing special happened…or did it?

   No one in my family realized how much that clock meant until it broke. I told the story to a man who goes to our church. Even though he was sick, he repaired it as good as new. For three weeks, the space remained empty. My husband stared at that blank space, frustrated because time no longer occupied it.

   Now the old clock has a new story to tell. When I asked the man how much I owed him, he said, “Just do someone else a favor when you get the chance.” I believe in doing that anyway.

   I started out calling this piece “The Absence of Time.” Time is never absent. It’s a winding road, or a never-ending story. Each turn or flip of the page is a new adventure. My clock was never absent. It was just experiencing a new chapter in its story. Now, it’s back home, telling me about it.

 

 

 

 

The Problem Is…

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Some where’s there’s a woman who’s at her wit’s end.

Her life’s a mess and she’s ashamed to tell her friends.

A bottle of courage and some little, white pills

Then there’ll be no more pain and no more guilt.

She lays on her bed and picks up her phone,

Sends a few lines to social media, then she’ll be gone.

“Sorry I can’t stay. Sorry I’m not strong.

But I’ve lost my way. I don’t know what went wrong.

By the time you read this post, my pain will be gone.

Sorry I can’t stay. I have to move on.”

dangerous shore line

Across town, a man inserts a bullet into a gun.

Shall he use it on himself, or the one who destroyed his home?

Ten years of marriage came to an agonizing end.

Of all the men she could have had, why did she choose his best friend?

His phone’s on the table. His gun’s in his hand.

He texts his ex-wife, and this is what he said,

“Sorry I can’t wait. Sorry I’m not strong.

Tell the kids I love them. I don’t know what went wrong.

By the time you get this text, my pain will be gone.

Sorry I can’t stay. I have to move on.”

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The world is wailing in agony, but we’re all too death to hear.

Pain surrounds us all. Can no one see the tears?

There’s a reason for all this suffering. Can no one understand?

We’re all worried about followers, when what we really need are friends.

Perhaps we should be kinder. Are we too blind to see?

Guns aren’t the only problem, in The Land of The Free.

It’s indifference and intolerance, from sea to shining sea.

 

 

Welcome.

Reminiscenceonline.compic.htmThe world seems so crazy these days. I wanted to create a safe place. A place where people can sit down and think. Welcome to reminisceonline.

The definition of “reminisce” is to indulge in an enjoyable recollection of past events as told by the narrator.

I can’t think of a better place to tell any story than a front porch. This is mine. Have a metaphorical seat in one of those rocking chairs, while I explain.

The front porch used to be a place where people sat and talked. Children played. And strangers were welcomed. There’s something about sitting outside and being comfortable that puts this person at ease. Maybe porches were built for that.

   I remember riding home from school, on the bus. A woman would usually be sitting on a couch, on her front porch. I never knew her name, but when the bus slowed down because of whatever reason, I could see her smiling face with clarity. She was plump and black, and always smiling. Sometimes I would wave. I never knew if she waved back, but I would like to think she did.

   Then one day, the couch was there, but the lady wasn’t. I wasn’t worried. People have lives. Maybe she had something to do. Days, then weeks passed, and months followed. The couch sat alone. I felt sad, at first. By the end of the school year I had stopped looking. Somehow, the cold acceptance that she was never coming back had set in.

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When I’m on the road I can’t help but glance at people’s homes. This seems to be a time when front porches are little more than stoops. They seem more to built to stand on while you’re opening the door, than to spend time talking. Perhaps it’s architectural preference. Or maybe, conversation has become a lost art. If it’s the latter, then this is indeed a sad time that we live in.