Page 38 - October 2020
P. 38

long without noticing it was stuck at 9 o'clock? I am not stupid. How could I
                 think it was 9 o'clock every time I looked at it? The maid has only been coming

                 for  two  months,  and  she  noticed.  I  try  to  remember  the  clock  in  some  other
                 past moment. I have no memory of it. None whatsoever.


                 Suddenly fascinated by this fixture, I look at  it as if I had never seen it before.
                 Kitchen  clocks  are  an  entire  genre.  Living  room  clocks  are  either  fancy  or
                 quirky  —  they  let  you  know  the  type  of  person  the  homeowner  wants  to  be.
                 Kitchen clocks are all the same. They come in different colors and in different
                 number  sizes  and  shapes,  but  they  are  actually  all  alike.  There  is  no
                 personality, only purpose: to tell the time. Except mine never worked, not since
                 the beginning. Apart from that, it is a regular kitchen clock, nondescript in any
                 detail,  it  doesn’t  even  have  a  brand  name  on  its  face.  There  might  be  one
                 exactly like it in your own kitchen. Please, go check if it works.


                 Mine has its hour hand pointing towards the 9, the minute hand resting on top
                 of the 12, the second hand stuck at almost the 3. I see the second hand twitch
                 and shake. It isn’t broken, I tell myself, it isn’t broken, it is held in place by an
                 external force and the hands are struggling to free themselves. For an instant, I

                 believe it, until I realize I am the one shaking.


                 I feel something shifting. A pressure is gone. I listen — the mower isn't audible
                 anymore.  That  means,  it's  lunch  time.  The  clouds  have  covered  the  second
                 mountain peak. That is how I measure the time. I remember there was a time
                 when I wore a watch on my wrist, when I knew what day of the week it was,
                 when  those  things  and  others  mattered  to  me.  Dividing  time  is  like  thinking.
                 Cluttering the day with invisible walls. I could never understand what for. To
                 accuse each other of being late? As if we didn’t feel time grow within us, as if
                 we  didn’t  know  we  are  always  older,  as  if  we  didn’t  see  the  plant  on  the
                 windowsill grow yet another leaf.


                 This kitchen clock is the only wall clock in my apartment. Basically, it is the
                 only clock in my apartment. I don’t own any alarm clock, or wristwatch. Was it

                 here, already, before I moved in?


                 Because I don’t think, I remember: the clock was indeed here before I arrived. I
                 see the face of a middle-aged woman: my mother has passed away, I need to
                 sell the apartment. This apartment.


                 The owner of the kitchen clock, dead.


                 The  maid  won’t  come  anymore.  The  clock  remains  on  my  kitchen  wall,
                 unchanged.
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