It was part of my Christmas loot. It's nothing fancy. It requires manual winding every couple days. Its tick tock is incredibly loud; the hollow sound echoes through the air between my desk and the rest of the house.
Still, I've decided there's something I really like about this clock. I could explain it in some profound way, like that it's a reminder that my time is what I make it. Or that time stands still for no one.
I think it's something simpler.
The clock makes me think of my maternal grandpa. He was a man I hardly knew; an alcoholic with whom I shared no bond. My most prominent memory is of trying to sit on his knee and, because he was snockered, wobbling to the hard concrete floor of his garage.
But when I hear the ticking of my clock, a vision of his bedroom, blanketed in beige and warm with sunlight, comes to mind. And I hear his clock, there on the headboard. It's a clock just like mine.
And I feel an ever-so-slight connection. It's not overwhelming, it's not tangible. But it's there.
I think it's why I like my clock so much.