When I was little I always had to know the time. It didn’t matter where we were; a restaurant, at the grocery store, at church, at the park. I had to know. It’s my little obsessive compulsive quality. My dad has an obsession with clocks. Old clocks, new clocks. As long as they have hands and can (or could once) tick he loves them. In one room of the house I once counted seven clocks. They all tick differently and at different times. Some of them even chime. My whole life I’ve been surrounded by clocks and time.
We have a clock that has been in our home since I was born. It’s red with a white face and roman numerals for the numbers. It’s had a prominent place in every house we’ve lived in. Above the fireplace. On wall in the family room. Always there. Not so very long ago the glass covering on the face fell and broke. The clock still works. The second hand still ticking round and round and round. The missing glass gave me an opportunity to photograph the clock up close.