My Granny died thirty years ago. She had lived on in sadness for a few years after my Grandpa had died in 1979. My dad, mum, uncle and aunt cleared the house. Dad and his brothers were brought up in this house. Their elder brother had gone off to war never to return. I played cricket in the passage with my brother and cousin. My Granny would spill Bilberry pie filling all over the tablecloth as she hurriedly served it out. We laughed, argued, played games and ate together in that house.
My dad asked me if there was anything I wanted from the house as a memento of my grandparents. I asked my dad if I could have the Cuckoo clock from the back kitchen. It had hung on the wall above the armchair quietly. Dad had brought it back from Germany when he did national service. The house was cleared, many of the contents was damp and had to be thrown away.
I was given the clock in a cardboard box. I removed the clock and studied it.
It was broken.
It had always been broken in my lifetime.
The Cuckoo had never appeared.
The clock never ticked.
I didn’t mind about that.
I smiled at the clock.
It mattered to me.
Not everything that’s broken should be thrown away.