A House Full of What Was and of What Might Have Been

From the pale, sepia-toned photographs of what once was living, breathing existence to the many old clocks placed here and there, almost everywhere, but now all frozen in their last living moment, it all clung to a time that once was.  And when that time once was not easily apparent, not yesterday or the day before, but nor was it the realm long ago.  It was that point in time when you could imagine all things resuming if someone would but start it moving again.  It was as if this house had somehow simply fell asleep and forgot to awake once more.

The oldest of photographs were of the stilted, sober and somber faced variety, the image so faded that it was little more than the memory of where grey had just been.  Yet there were photographs of later vintage, fresher images of a fresher expression, when cameras and film did not have to hold the life in artificial, extended pause.  These were family pictures, children dressed in finery but posed at play, rolling hoops or playing with kittens in their laps.  On the finely-crafted end tables, beside the heavy, almost over-sized table lamps with country scenes painted upon the delicate, porcelain glass, had been placed with organized care, dozens of miniature photos standing in miniature picture frames.  These were of the little moments, the passing moments, the human and intimate moments that are the diary of a lifetime lived.

The clocks were as varied as they were many, there were six in this one room: three small, brass carriage clocks one on each end table beside the Chesterfield that had a fox-hunting scene embroidered upon its fabric  and one set inside the glass doors of the corner curio case; inside that same case a glass domed anniversary clock with four gold balls that should be winding back and forth, back and forth; sitting on the fireplace mantle a walnut Westminster clock with the white, round face that had two key holes where eyes would be expected to be; and in the far corner, a stately hand-carved Grandfather's Clock stood watch, the workings within suspended now deathly still.

And all the clocks ... and all the clocks ... had abandoned their work of keeping time at the very same, fateful moment, ten minutes to eight, no more, no less.




The End

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