Lost Time

That Little Voice 

My Granddad had one.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was dependable.

He would tenderly take it out of his pants, look at it with pride, rub it with his thumb, feel its hardness, and marvel at its reliability.

Age diminished its responsiveness. It became less constant, losing energy and vigor.

Slowly, oh so slowly, it stopped ticking.

So did my Granddad. My Grandmother had one, too.

It rested gently above her ample bosom, a dainty ornament adorning her Sunday dress, anchored with a decorative pin.

It was a simple way to know the time, a quick glance down reassuring she was not late.

She wore it silently announcing her lost wealth and status, using a gentle and tender hand to show its worth.

But after years of winding, it fell apart.

So did my Grandmother.