The Clock

In the kitchen
sits a clock,
the final gift from my father
before his death.

The constant, rhythmic ticking
brings comfort at night
at 2 a.m.
when I sit on the floor eating oatmeal,
dreading another sleepless night.

His heart long stopped,
but the ticking continues,
an ever-present substitute
for his presence,
giving me strength
and hope
and letting me know
that with each constant,
rhythmic tick,
I am one step closer
to being with him again.


More Poetry