There’s a golden clock
In a clear glass dome
Above six figures in a circle
On the fireplace mantle.
.
I remember Grandma when I was a young girl.
She laughed and baked and gardened
And sat in her chair and read.
So the clock ticked a happy tune
And the figures beneath it danced.
.
Slowly she changed as I grew up.
She yelled and burned bacon and abandoned her flowers
And read the same book for a year.
They called it Alzheimer’s—
And the clock kept time wrong,
And the figures beneath it rarely danced.
.
Now Grandma’s healed,
Her memory’s back,
She laughs and gardens again in paradise.
But the clock’s only right two times a day,
And the figures beneath it are stilled forever.
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I’m not sure if I like this one or not, but it’s been a bit since I wrote anything, so I thought I’d share this. Also, I’m considering starting/continuing another short-ish story (hopefully it won’t grow into the monster that The Weavers’ Blessing turned into, haha). What are your thoughts? Think I should continue Lady Elizabeth? Start something new? Keep writing poetry and random prose thoughts?
Love it :( What do you mean by,” the clocks are only right two times a day”?
If a clock doesn’t tick, it’s hands stay in the same place, so twice a day (am and pm), they’ll point to the right place.
Glad you love it <3
Reblogged this on Beat the Dog Shit Out of Alzheimer's Disease.