2003-03-24 || 10:15 a.m.

|| cuckoo ||

i have in my possession one cuckoo clock. transported by way of overhead carry-on storage cabinets and back seats of cars, taking long rests in basements and dark garages and dimly lit hallways from chicago to southern california to here. the bellows are torn and the roof is dusty, but it is now in a box in my living room, fending off more dust and the merciless pouncing of cats.

the cuckoo clock enjoyed thirty plus years in my grammy-far-away's kitchen, surviving bozo the clown on channel nine and buffy the dog and various cousins' marriages and my grandpa. a few years ago when my grandmother woke up with a start to realize she was indeed getting on in age and living alone in a house that had once housed three girls in its low-ceilinged attic and two boys terrorizing stairwells, she put the word out that we grandkids were to make requests of what we wanted. kelly put dibs on the gumball machine in the basement. i requested the cuckoo clock. it is rumored grandma went on a marker-and-circle-sticker binge, assigning initials to most things in the house.

so i finally have the clock. i took it out saturday night, taking the knots out of the chains, pressing various doors and levers to spy on the wooden birds hidden inside. it's lovely. i can almost remember what it sounds like. it reminds me of polish food and yellow linoleum and my grampy at the kitchen table in an undershirt, sitting on laps and striped pajama tops and the tiny television set, the holy honor of being five and allowed to pull the chains to wind the clock late at night before grammy went to bed. i can't decide where to put it.

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