Towards the end, my mother would regularly
bid me wind the clocks she couldn’t reach –
how little time I felt I had, how slow
to respond, bipolared like a pendulum that’s stopped.
Younger, I’d rushed to do it, directing from the stool
the ticking and the tocking with a wave of each hand,
gleefully flitting with each ding and dong
as I had paced them, clock succeeding clock.
When time ran out between the chores
of my own motherhood and my lost name,
all it became was the tighter twisting of keys
in yet more faces without doors, each effort
a rehearsed piece played for my mother
who thought me younger than she.
She’s gone. As has my own young family.
And I’ve inherited the clocks, and the time
to wind them in. I keep their faces
within reach of mine. Sometimes their chimes
bring memories of lighter days. Sometimes
all they can say is GONE GONE GONE.