Life of a Wall Clock
I being the wall clock have the best view of the house or maybe it’s the other way around. I like to think I have the best view of the house. 17 years ago, I came in, with the newly wed bride, I was a wedding present. I was to be! Pretty, original rosewood, I chime every hour, not like those annoying cuckoo clocks but with a soft, sophisticated sound that resonates through my rich wood, waking up the household, for seventeen long years till now.
Lot of clocks came in since that day, but I still held the throne. Many people come to this house; a lot of them openly admire my killer looks. If clocks could blush, my rosewood would turn a blood red every once in a week. Such flattery!
Of course, looks aren’t the only thing. I also hold the record for the most accurate timing ever. They had to take me to the doctor, just twice in these seventeen years. Everything is alright except for the audible and annoying requests of the household, which border on insane and impossible. Let me give you an example.
One day, while gazing romantically into her husband’s eyes, she whispered “Oh, Why doesn’t the time stand still for us?” I have never felt more useless and dejected. It took me a month to get over that shock. Apparently, there is this other thing called, ‘camera’ that makes time stand still they say. I don’t know, kids these days with their weird accessories. Blasphemy!
This other time, when the elder kid’s 10th grade results were due, the whole household stared at me, shamelessly, shifting their gaze momentarily from me to the computer screen. I was holding my breath; I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to help. I couldn’t move any faster. I tried, I failed. I wasn’t made like that. The kid looked at me like I was good for nothing. It hurt. He’s a kid, so I let go.
But I have to admit one guilty pleasure. I am the only one in the house who knows whether the guests would really like to stay or not. The number of times they steal glances at me is directly proportional to how much they want to leave the house. The thrill is indescribable and it gets even better when they start looking at me, just five minutes into the house. Such entertainment!
“When the hour hand is at 10, I want you two monkeys to be in bed. I don’t care if the show ends or not” Said the husband to the kids, who pretended not to hear and glued their eyes to the TV, probably in bliss thinking I would side by them. I was in such despair! Oh I just… Can’t. The hour hand was close to ten, I wanted to stop, I just couldn’t. I chimed, loud and clear and in the soft and sophisticated tone, breaking the spell on the kids and they threw the unkind look at me before stomping off to their bedrooms. I felt like a cruel ogre. But, I was Shrek!
My ancestors were huge and powerful and were called “Sundials”. They even needed a round the clock, clock keeper to take care of them. Such royalty! If that’s not a proud lineage to boast about, I don’t know what is. I always wonder if I ever wanted to be something else. Like a decorative glass figurine, skating on ice, looking graceful and delicate. But, then, I would hate to break and shatter into a thousand pieces and I wonder if that hurts too much. So I abandon that idea.
I also sometimes think if being a telephone was fun. You would always be the bearer of news, good and bad. But then, people are disgusting. The women of this house are such chatterboxes. They would leave their breath but not the receiver till either the house is set on fire or they themselves are on fire. Now that I think about it, being a phone is as good as being a small size disaster waiting to happen.
As seconds turn to minutes and then minutes turn to hours, I sit there, perched high up on the wall, ruminating on these thoughts. But give me a chance to become anything else and I will haughtily and proudly say no. I was born a clock, I will die a clock. Hmm, how would I like to be buried? I don’t know! Maybe roses and silk would be good. But I have heard horror stories about dead clocks being given away to horrible people who dismantle them and just abandon them, letting the wood rot or clocks been thrown away in attics, to be forgotten forever. Gasp, gives me heartache to even think about it.
Wedding presents aren’t treated that way I suppose. Maybe I will forever be revered by the bride, lovingly in her trunk, forever kept like an old memory. Sigh. An old clock can wish, cannot it? It’s been a good life so far, I shouldn’t complain. But, I can rant as long as I don’t bore you I suppose? Well, then, until next time.
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