I Wound All the Clocks Today

Reflections from The Turtle’s Diary*

I Wound All the Clocks Today

Lament

intransitive verb

: to mourn aloud: WAIL

I never believed that lamenting was real. The uncontrollable outbursts of grief, and the whole falling to the floor howling wasn’t anything that I had personally witnessed. Raised catholic, I never saw that kind of emotion at either a family memorial service nor within my church at any time. My only witness to such expression was what I’d seen on television or portrayed in movies and I honestly believed it all to be an overdramatization. Maybe a sign of respect or an expectation, I didn’t know but I didn’t believe it to be completely real.

Today, I’m scared it’s going to happen to me in public; yes, to me. Maybe in the middle of the grocery store while looking at pork chops or something. At home, nearly everything I pick up is a memory so, when I do, out of nowhere some guttural howl emerges. It comes from deep within and then, it leaves as quickly as it came.

Afterward, there’s a vast emptiness, a complete lack of emotion. No tears, no emotion, not even a thought left in my head. That emptiness lasts for a moment or two until I realize, and I’m left wondering, what was that all about? And what do I do with it; how does one process something they never actually believed was real? I shake my head and move on until it happens again.

While in the grocery store yesterday, I found myself looking down to the end of aisles as I’d do when he and I’d get separated. I kind of lost it at that moment; when I realized what was happening, it could have easily turned into a loud wail; thank God it didn’t.

There are a million things I could be doing right now; things I should be doing in fact but simply can’t. The things I’d like to do, I can’t seem to stay focused on long enough to even break ground so, I abandon whatever in lieu of something else; only to repeat myself.

I wound all the clocks today. That was a mistake. Damn chimes go off, every 15-minutes.

I don’t have his ashes back yet. That could be part of the problem. I feel so trapped in the house where every room is an equal opportunity cry-room. Every item I look at, everything I pick up causes a rush of emotions.

There’s 30 years of memories in this house. I was hoping I’d have his ashes back by now; I hope I get them before Christmas.

* The Turtle’s Diary is a collection of thoughts, insights, and stories based on true-life experiences – all born from the misguided trust in others.

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