THE COMFORT CLOCK On a summer trip, my wife, daughter, and eight month-old granddaughter visited Janet, a good and kind friend. During their evening of conversation, my wife noticed that our granddaughter reacted when she heard Janet's small mantle clock gently chime as it marked 15 minute increments of time. There was something about the clock that fascinated our granddaughter. My wife even commented to Janet, "She really loves your clock!" Janet smiled, but said nothing. Over the course of several leisurely cups of tea, each time the clock sentineled the quarter hour, our granddaughter would stop what she was doing, look in the direction of the clock, brightly smile, coo, and then become animated. Janet watched and finally said, "I don't know how you'll feel about this, but this clock has a story." Janet told how eight years prior, the symptoms of her mother's Alzheimer's disease became so advanced that her mother could no longer live in her own home. Janet and her two sisters found a nursing home to care for their mother. The daughters took a few of their mother's possessions to the nursing home to keep familiar items as part of her daily life. It was a difficult week when they broke up their mother's household. Days and evenings were full of sisterly camaraderie, memories, laughter, and tears. Each of the daughters kept a few things belonging to their mother that had special meaning for them. Janet chose the small mantle clock. "I can remember as a child sitting for hours at our dining room table drawing or doing homework and the clock was always on the mantle," Janet said. Most people have a few fond memories that take them magically back to what was often a simpler, safer time -- a time from their childhood. For some, it is the smell of cloved oranges, or the hot singey smell of freshly ironed clothes, or the aroma of baking bread or frying chicken. For others, it is an old song or hymn. It might be the feel of a soft cotton skirt or cool sheet on a hot summer night. For Janet, fond memories circled around the clock. During Janet's teen years, the clock's chime stopped working. Other than a passing comment of, "awwww, that's a shame," there was not much said from Janet or the other girls. The teen years are, after all, when we try desperately to define ourselves, and often home is something to be escaped from, not to wrap warmly around ourselves for comfort. The clock kept perfect time, but the chimes remained mute. Janet's mother often said that she would fix them one day, but there never seemed to be the extra money for the repairs. When Janet brought the clock home, she placed it on her mantle as it had been on her mother's. There it sat for seven years, still quiet except for its ticking, keeping perfect time across all those years that bridged childhood to middle age. A year ago, her mother's health started a rapid decline. When it was clear that her mother was near death, Janet took off work and stayed with her mother for the last three days of her life. The other two daughters came and went frequently. All three were fortunate to be with their mother in the last moments of her life. They decided each would write a short tribute to their mother to read at the service. She awoke the next morning tired, empty, sad, and not in the best of moods. Even though she did not feel up to it, Janet decided she had better write her tribute before the day became active with all the matters at hand. She sat at her dining room table and started writing. As the words came, she found her mood changed. She slipped into another place and time and felt so close to her mother. Janet was marveling at this sense of well-being when she realized part of why she felt that way. As Janet sat there, pen to paper, the clock chimed as it must have been during the time she sat writing. The sound that so comforted her 40 years before, at a dining room table distant in miles and time, now comforted her once again. Janet said, "My sister jokingly says I repaired the clock just to have a good story. My other sister said, 'Mother always said she had to keep an eye on you.'" Janet, being scientific by training and nature, remained ambivalent saying, "I don't really know what to think." My wife, though, had no doubt and said without hesitation, "It is your mother telling you she is OK. It is a wonderful and precious gift to have that sense of childhood comfort returned to you." Why does the improbable become the actual? Some are uncertain what to think. Some see simple coincidence. Some see the hand of fate. Some see the touch of God. And me? I do not pretend to know much about this life, this world, but I do know it is indeed a wonderful and mysterious place. -- Daniel James «:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«^i^MISSI ^i^«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« Richiele Marie [email protected] (Missi) I disbelieved in reincarnation in my last life, too. »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«