This is my grandmother's clock. If she were alive today she'd be 107 years old. I think she inherited it from her mother or grandmother, and when my mom died it came to me. I remember its voice -- a soft, low, fuzzy sound that signaled the passage of another hour. Back then I was rich in hours, not at all concerned with the brevity of time. Today, I know better because this timepiece has seen more six o'clocks than I ever will. And it will outlive me.
I wish I could hear the chime now, but I can't because the clock is broken. I need to take it to a clockmaker and have it restored. Until then it will sit in its new home, on my mantle, reminding me how short life is.