The Cuckoo Clock

We had called her grandma but she wasn't biologically our grandmother. She might have been some distant cousin or great aunt of someone married into the family.

Grandma passed away in her sleep, leaving everything to our family. The petrol teal Victorian with three stories had been closed for a couple of months. It was too big for Grandma, but it had been a fun playground for us when we were kids.

It had nooks and crannies, ornate moulding cabinets disguised as walls, and we had many places to play hide and seek.

She'd get mad at us any time we slipped down the freshly waxed wood banister; it was thick and strong enough to accommodate a couple of us. She tried to chase us with a long wooden spoon but could never catch us.

Here we were. Fall had arrived. The gigantic oak in the backyard that provided shade during every hot summer day of our childhood was dressed in sun-kissed orange.

The old cuckoo clock startled us as we looked at one another, a silent question hanging in the air. We knew that the clock had to be wound up every week for it to operate properly. Yet, here it was, ticking away as if someone had been there to wind it. But we knew no one had been in the house. The only plausible explanation was one we dared not voice out loud.

Mónica 10/16/2022