Today while I was attempting to tidy up, it suddenly struck me that I haven’t heard my little mantle clock ticking for over 2 years now, not since our noisy girls entered our lives. I actually had a fleeting moment where I wished that I could just sit down in peace and quiet and listen to that sound. The irony of that is, that for quite a while I hated the ticking sound of that clock. I hated how it burrowed into me, how it sounded like a loud thudding instead of a gentle tick tock. How it dominated every day of my life for months.
In the days, weeks and months after our son died, when my husband had returned to work and I was on “maternity” leave. I would sit at home, totally alone and totally lonely. Our friends and family all had work and lives of their own to get on with and I was left alone, just me, my grief and the ticking of that clock.
I would sit in a chair, more often than not crying and the only other sound would be the ticking of that clock. I remember it vividly, how it would take over the room, how it would thump inside my head. In my darkest days that sound was my only companion.
So why on earth today, did I want to sit down and listen to that sound. I really don’t know, maybe because although I grew to hate the noise, perhaps it also subconsciously felt like a friend. It was my reminder that life goes on and I had to go on. Maybe that little clock with it’s calming tick tock was doing it’s best to bring me through the darkness.
Then again, it’s only a clock. Just a simple tick tocking little clock
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