This is based on the poem:
You and me in a clockwork dream
'Till the hourglass breaks
And the dorm bells scream
'Till the hourglass breaks
And the dorm bells scream
...
I stepped out into the harsh winter air, instantly mauled by stinging ice flakes. I tucked my scarf tighter around my red face and pressed on through the swirling mass of white. I was determined to reach my goal. If it was there, it would be worth it.
Footstep after heavy footstep, I trudged through the newly-formed snowdrifts, praying that the roads were clear enough for a car to make through. Or at least had been an hour ago.
After a few minutes of cold eternity, I reached the end of my driveway. I turned right and walked a few feet, then stopped. I opened the creaking metal door of my mailbox. I peered inside. My heart soared when I saw three little white envelopes, tucked neatly inside. I gently picked them up and shut the icy metal box.
Ten minutes later I entered my warm cottage, which was tucked back amidst leafless trees. After shedding my down coat, mittens, scarf, and clunky boots, I made my way into the kitchen.
I set the letters on the counter, and went to work making tea. I poured water into the teapot, then put it on the stove. I got a small spark of fascination as I turned the dial and saw the tiny blue flames spring up.
Once that was done I picked the envelopes back up and drifted into the living room, which was open to the kitchen. Normal flames danced in the stone fireplace, casting a flickering light across the room. I could hear the wind howling through the four-pane windows.
I sat cross-legged in my over-stuffed recliner, feeling the coarse fabric beneath my bare feet. I looked down at my mail; two bills, and a minuscule card. I scanned the return address of the minute one; it was what I had been waiting for.
I tore open the seal and pulled a small piece of paper out of the envelope. I unfolded the paper.
My dearest daughter Pamela,
I know I told you that I would be spending Christmas with you, but things have changed. While traveling I met John Dowrey--a well-renowned antique clock salesman. He’s given me an opportunity I just can’t pass up. I won’t go into details, but there is an antique grandfather which has my name on it.
I know that you understand, and I’m sorry that it didn’t work out this time. Maybe we can get together another time, perhaps Easter or Fathers Day.
Until then, your father, Lenard Riley
I slowly lowered the note, disappointment seeping into my system. It had been foolish, but for some reason I thought that Dad would actually pull through this time. I didn’t know why; it’s not like he had ever before.
I was twenty-two when Mom died, five years ago. Since then Dad had avoided any sort of family occasion, even one with just me. Instead, to fill his time he took up a hobby; antique clock collecting. He traveled whenever possible.
Of course, news of his whereabouts never reached me instantly; my snail of a father didn’t believed not just in the internet, but in the telephone also, and always sent his greetings through the mail. The date on the letter was stamped for five days ago.
I sighed, taking a throw blanket from beside my chair. I curled up in it, letting my tiredness break through. The warmth surrounding me, it wasn’t long before sleep came.
I walked a winding cobblestone path, rolling hills on either side. The sweet smell of apple met my nostrils; apple trees dotted the landscape. A slight breeze careened the countryside, rustling the leaves of the trees. I half expected a wind chime to make an appearance.
I ascended a hill in a smooth gait, birds twittering around me. When I reached the top of the hill, I saw what was beyond; an old fashioned cottage, like something you might see in Snow White, or Little Red Riding Hood perhaps. It had white siding beneath crossing wood beams, and under a thatched roof.
I ambled downhill, taking my time, enjoying the scenery. Nearing the cottage, I saw that it had flowerbeds lining the perimeter, except at the doorway. It also had flowerboxes in the windows, whose shutters were open. In the window rested a freshly baked apple pie, which scent made my mouth water.
Without a thought I walked in the doorway, as if it were my own home, and not some random shelter in the middle of literally nowhere.
Inside was spotless, as tidy as humanly possible. In one corner of the room was a quaint little kitchen, near which was a little wooden table, with little wooden chairs. Of course, not a dirty dish was to be seen.
My shoes clacked against the wooden floor as I made my way to a door at the opposite end of the small room. Turning the knob, I slid it open, unsure exactly as to what I was expecting to find.
When the door opened the first thing that hit me was an unusual sound; ticking. Every wall, every nook and every cranny, was covered in clocks. From grandfathers to cuckoo clocks, to simple wooden wall clocks. Pendulums swung in symmetry, creating a rhythm for the room.
At one end of the room was a long, wooden workbench. Standing in front of it with his back to me was a man, whose hair was graying. He seemed to be working on a clock, for their were clock parts scattered, and glimpses could be caught of clock-making tools. Or at least that’s what I assumed they were.
The man looked familiar, but seeing only his back, I couldn’t quite place him.
I walked up to him and tapped his shoulder. He turned.
“Dad?” I asked, surprised.
“Hello Pamela,” he said, his hands still moving. I peered down. As it turns out he was not making a clock, but was in fact painting a peculiar looking wooden bird.
“What kind of bird is that?” I said, curious.
“This?” he gestured to what he was painting. “This is what I call a dorm bell. I put one on all of my clocks, or at least the ones that require a bird of sorts.”
I looked around and was amazed to see that a great proportion of the clocks in the room had a dorm bell on them.
“You made all of these? I didn’t know you knew how.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, dear.”
“That’s not my fault,” I said, a tad bitter.
Dad set down his paintbrush and wiped his hands on his work apron. Earnestly he said, “You’re right. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”
For a moment there was an awkward air between us. I didn’t have much of a taste for awkward silences, so I said, “Why Dad?”
“Why what?” he asked.
“Why did you become so distant? Right when I needed you most.”
He seemed to think for a moment, then said, “I’m sorry. After your mother died… I just couldn’t stand to be around anything that reminded me of her. And you’re so much like her.”
Everyone liked my mother, so I took that as a wonderful compliment. Tears were starting to form in my eyes.
“But I still need you.” I did, I really did.
“I know.” He looked around the room. “Tell you what, from now on, I’ll be there for you.” He took an hourglass off of a shelf on the wall, and handed it to me. “I want you to have this. It was your mother’s.”
I was touched, truly touched.
“Thanks Dad,” I said, taking the hourglass.
The sand had almost ran out; there were but a few seconds left. I watched as the last sand fell from the glass, signaling the end of the hour.
All at once every clock chimed, and every cuckoo--excuse me, dorm bell--screeched their anthem. This startled me to the point where I dropped the hourglass, shattering it on the cold hard floor.
My head shot up, ears ringing. The teapot on the stove was hissing loudly, telling me that the water was hot. Once I got used to the noise somewhat, I relaxed, leaning back down in my chair.
I reread the letter from my father, shaking my head softly.
“Until then, Dad. Until then.” I whispered, longing wrapped in my voice.
You and me in a clockwork dream
‘Till the hourglass breaks
And the dorm bells scream
