Two Broken Clocks

I’m trying to minimalize, organize and downsize my stuff.

It would be easier if I didn’t form irrational sentimental attachments to things.

An example of stuff I can’t get rid of:  two broken clocks.

I don’t even like the dome clock.  My mom bought it when I was in elementary school.  It’s shiny, fussy and broken…but my mom touched it once.

The wooden cottage clock is even older.  My parents brought it back from my grandparents’ home in Wales when I was little.  It didn’t work then–probably the reason my Cissie and Bampa were willing to part with it.

It’s fairly non-descript, but once you get to know it, you realize it has a sinister side.

You see, it’s not just a clock, but also a music box.  The sunflower next to the face is the wind-up mechanism.  Like the clock itself, the music box doesn’t work…mostly.

In all the decades this clock has been in my life, the music box sprang to life twice–both times immediately prior to harrowing and life-changing events.

My broken Welsh clock played music on the mornings of my mother’s funeral and my wedding.

Why do I hang onto something that creeps me out a bit?  Well, you see, my mom touched it once…