He was once a real boy;
distinctly she remembered him
holding her hand and looking her in the eye.
These days, to gain his attention
she wore prescription 3D glasses
and sat in a life-simulating gaming chair;
unsure whether the blurred edges he exhibited
were the result of his stereoscopic obsession,
a definite change in generational perspective,
or the tears in her empty nest eyes.
Dad collected clocks; meticulously winding, checking, synchronising.
Marvelling in the mechanism, ‘listen,’ he beseeched, and held us still,
as simultaneous hours struck irreplaceable moments.
With reckless disregard we hurtled through time;
complex histories mocking Dad’s imparted precision.
Still he held us – a permanent pivot in a plethora of progress.
Alarm bells rang when Dad’s clocks collected dust;
A family epoch ending, we watched his equilibrium tip.
Though pendulums slow, time must pass. We were ready at last.
Still now, we listened, and held our father close as time wound down.