My Husband's Clock

   It's Sunday. It's noon. Every Sunday noon (for years whose number I have trouble counting) my husband, Paul, pulled the chain of his seven day clock, (fashioned after Thomas Jefferson's eight day clock). Every Sunday since his death in April I have pulled that chain. Most Sundays it seemed a part of my Sunday tasks. Today it was different.
   My coffee cup was empty; the crossword puzzle was done (with cheating only three times). Paul would have disapproved of the cheating. I deem cheating a replacement of his share of solution.  A few minutes after 12 noon I approached the clock. With one hand I held the left chain; with the other I lifted the weighted chain.
                A simple pulling
                A simple pulling
That was all that was needed. I stood before the clock chains in hand. My left hand felt numb; my right hand tingled. Laughter erupted from my constricted throat. Piercing my consciousness was the old song -- My Grandfather's Clock.
    Who besides me remembers it?
                  My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf
                  It stood ninety years on the floor.
                  Then it stopped, never to go again, when the old man died.
  Paul  would remember it.

   Then I knew. This clock cannot stop. This clock must not stop. Paul wants it to run. Paul whose spirit has not died. As long as that clock runs; as long as those who knew and loved him are alive, so is he. When his memory is removed from us who loved him I shall not do this Sunday Clock Ritual. Until then--- The clock shall not stop.