A Clock’s Life

I was crafted in a workshop, formed in the darkest hours of the night as the clockmaker wiped sleep from his eyes. My numbers were painted smoothly in simple strokes, my hands attached soon after. The smug satisfaction on the clockmaker's face at my ticking, the satisfaction of my family's of me fitting perfectly above their sofa left me incredibly pleased. I accompany them every day.

I receive their frantic glances as they scurry out the door, their stares as somebody isn't on time for dinner, the stolen glances as they sneak back home through the window at the latest hours of the night. I never seem to move quickly enough when they lay sleepless at night or when they force dates and formulas. Yet my wily self hurries on when the day was just getting started. Sometimes, they leave me to tick without any company, I try talking to pests that enter uninvited, but they have no understanding of etiquette.

I watch the moon slowly disappear and promptly reappear in his long, repetitive uninteresting magic trick till my family return. I like ticking for them though they sing ballads of a malevolent mouse voyaging to my top only to fall defeated, I like ticking for them though they often tune me out.