In Memory Of

She’d been coming to Bill's grave weekly, and in all that time, she’d only seen a handful of visitors in the old cemetery. Today, Memorial Day, was different. Ten or twelve cars had rolled by since she arrived at Bill’s plot. Marge actually found it annoying, as her thoughts were interrupted by the noise of these vehicles. She didn’t look up from the spot where she knelt on her hankerchief. Focussing on the neatly cut grass somehow brought her closer to her husband, even though his body wasn’t interred there.

Bill had been lost at sea during a storm off the coast of Camden, Maine. His body was never recovered, nor were those of his two fellow fishermen.

Marge recalled the final conversation they'd had the morning she last saw him, now almost a year to the day. He promised her then that they would bring home his mother’s grandfather clock when he returned. Bill’s mother died three months before her son, and knowing how Marge loved that beautiful oak clock, his mother wanted her to have it. The clock hadn’t worked for years, but Marge insisted that she would have it fixed. Bill, himself, recalled his years of growing up, hearing the clock’s chimes sound the hours of his youth. Now, every time she visited her father-in-law, she averted her eyes from the old clock in the front hall.

Standing up and straightening her skirt, Marge used the soiled hanky to dab tears from the corners of her eyes. She stood in silent prayer for a few more minutes, and then turned to leave. Marge noted that the cemetery was spotted with flowers and flags this day, and people milled about the many stones. Somehow, with the noon sun shining down brightly, the granite blocks didn’t appear so stark and cold.

Twenty minutes later, as Marge walked into her apartment, she heard the phone ringing. She took a few quick steps to where it hung on the kitchen wall and picked it up. It was her father-in-law. He had called to tell her that a strange thing happened a short while ago. The grandfather clock began chiming at noon, for no reason at all, as if it hadn’t been silenced for years. He asked her once more if she was sure she didn’t want it, because he’d be glad to bring the clock over to her place and set it up.

Marge felt her eyes brimming over, as she imagined Bill’s presence at the kitchen table. She hesitated a moment and then said, "Yes, Dad, please bring it to me. It’s time."

RickMack (jotoma@bellsouth.net)

© May 2004


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