On my desk,
a Westclox Scotty,
black numbers on a white face,
set in stainless steel.
It cost a dollar once,
as priceless now as the memory
of my father tying it to his belt loop
with a shoestring,
slipping it into his coat pocket.
Until it stopped.
I know it would tick again.
All I’d have to do is wind it.
I would if I could wind it in reverse
to a time when dad
was the young man I never knew,
except in the yellowed photograph
on the wall above my desk.
Sometimes when I’m shaving
I think I see his face.
©Gene Williamson
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Sandie Angel :o)
Regis
I am sorry you didn't know...
"the young man I never knew,"
I only knew my father till I was 5ish, some are very blessed to more indepth have & know the love of thier fathers, I have envy :)
Embraced ~ Embrassé
Vickie
Love,
Sage
Funny how little things bring the memories of people and places back.
It's good to know where you've sprung from, from whose clock-face you counted the minutes...
John
Cryssa
great work Gene...
John
what an ethereal succinct little epic and such a quiet write....
about a beautiful sentiment regarded as near holy by two beautiful men. ..
time: heals all wounds.
such sanctity found here.
beautiful, beautiful.
ness
I know it would tick again.
All I’d have to do is wind it.
I would if I could wind it in reverse
and the understated and profound:
Sometimes when I’m shaving
I think I see his face.
Same here with the passing of my father years ago. - David
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla. *tears*