A clock hangs above our bed. Its face is faded, the burgundy frame cracked at four and nine. The two hands click through the hours whether we’re checking them or not; they pass over each other, then inevitably round farther away.
We found it at an antique store two years ago, our hearts and our lease freshly signed.
We’ve slept beneath it every night since then, warm legs tangled, breath hot and sweet.
We tacked-up pictures next to it, of our grandmothers, of our childhoods, of the sea.
We glance at it resentfully on weekday mornings and always kiss each other goodbye.
We argue in spite of it late at night, when conversation turns towards our future or the lack of it.
I often wonder about whose moving box our things will end up in if we decide that it’s over. You can can take the pots, our couch, your books. I’ll take our rug, my chair, our clock.
If you decide to stay here and I go back to California, I’ll fix our clocks cracks with glue. I’ll hang it up on a different wall, let its hands pass over and move away from each other there.
And time will go on in the same way, whether we’re together or not.
Copyright: Ecco Driscoll, 2019.