This clock hung in my grandparents’ lake house for as long as I can remember. Every hour the tiny bird would emerge and call out the hours. And every night before bed, Grandpa would pull the weights back to the top so the clock could keep time for another day. The ritual of hours marked by birdsong was not lost on me, even at seven-years-old.
I lost track of the clock... the lake house was sold, both of my grandparents passed. . .
But it came to mind again recently, and my sweet aunt gifted it to me for Christmas this year. A local clock repairman restored it for me. And tonight I hung it and gently pulled the weights back to the top of the clock.
A tiny bird is once again calling out the hours, this time in my home as my children watch.
(“How does it work?!” “Where are the batteries!?”) and the wonder of time is not lost on me—thirty years later. Not only clock hands come full circle, it seems.