There is an old grandfather clock hanging on the wall in the living room at the house where I grew up. The pendulum swings and ticks the seconds like a metronome and the Westminster chimes progressively mark each quarter-hour with the full chorus and gongs on the hour.
The chimes can be heard throughout the house. After an absence, the clock sounds are prominent upon arrival, but quickly become almost subliminal the longer one stays in the house. Grief is like that. Initially it is raw and loud but with time it moves beneath the surface - ever present but not overwhelming.
To me, it is a comforting presence and an audible manifestation of life in the house, much like a heartbeat. When the springs wind down and the clock is mute, the silence is deafening, and the house seems empty.
The clock springs must be wound with a key periodically for the mechanisms to do their work to keep time and ring the chimes. So it is with the inhabitants of the house. Though not operated by springs and mechanisms, our creator gives us a heart and a soul that must be nurtured and maintained or else the life force within diminishes and falls silent.
When I am home visiting, I choose to wind that grandfather wall clock and listen to its sounds as an affirmation of life in that old house and in my heart and soul as well.
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