And on the Rocket Clock! our focused eyes widened. On the Rocket Clock! we learned to tell big-people’s time. Around the Rocket Clock! we smiled and shared songs, on the Rocket Clock! parents watched our years grow richer as we travelled through life, singing, clapping, playing along. On wristwatches, we interpreted the angles of hands, on our wristwatches, we practiced patience and countdowns – (of patience I wasn’t a fan) on the classroom clock, we learned just five minutes until recess! on the examination room clock we shuddered as exam's end drew near. Behind the gymnasium walls, nervous, sweaty palms, midday was the call, arms wrapped around, falling into an embrace, time standing still, relationship, a new beginning is forged, is tentatively made. Years pass, and behind, in a secret room, we watch the time count down, dressed in gorgeous lily white, the rest in flesh and fuchsia pink, classy frills, lace, and thrills, nervously an iPhone’s time is repeatedly consulted, impending matrimony, it’s almost time, when two lives will become a beautiful, single flow. On the Rocket Clock, look, darling, do you see the little and big hands? That means it’s half past three, Daddy loved to read the Rocket Clock, too. Did I ever tell you how we met? Oh, would you look at the time… The rocket clock says its not time to share that story with you, perhaps for now, I’ll keep it as his and mine. A stern, sterile hospital, that sad, clinical clock, the second hand which does not tick, is red and goes around continuously as though a lie that life will go on and on, but here, life can cease prematurely, or perhaps once we have accepted this, it will, to know that for them to be taken by another’s ethereal hand when our loved one is prepared, it will occur when they are ready. Remember when we watched the Rocket Clock? I spin his worn golden ring around. Remember when you counted the time down? What a joyous sound! Remember our years, remember our lives, then fall shut do his paining eyes, my truest man, his loss, my undoing, the world accepts his spirit, his is a willing sacrifice he’s bringing. I grasp his hand fiercely, stare at that abominable clock, tears squeeze from my eyes, I’ll never forget this moment, this time, I rub his palm against my cheek and hysterically sob, so proud I had called him mine. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Photo by Matheus Bertelli from Pexels Author's note: "The Rocket Clock" references a short time-telling segment in a very popular educational Australian children's television program called "Play School". It's been showing for over fifty years.
Join me also at:
I am calling, calling, for this ability to visit me,
the skill to be mobile, to be free.
For so long, I’ve been unable to properly walk and stride,
how problematic for a soul for whom the desire to explore is so vividly alive!
Alas! I fumble, my extremities dance, not so subtle, nor nimble,
this fawn, I need my mama to guide my hooves,
my awkward legs, they wobble and tremble.
I tentatively rise,
she nudges my behind, permits me balance temporarily,
while I sway and sway
and then blindly fall, this time I smile
because it is between fawn and mother,
this clumsy style,
I am dancing my own moves,
and I treasure our routine for this little while.
Because Mama and I, she has not much time,
she must set off to forage, to collect for the needs of hers and mine,
she will leave me alone all day
while I manage my practice of walking,
try as I may,
perhaps she’ll not return in time,
perhaps she’ll never return at all,
how can I consider this?
My heart breaks,
my stomach plummets, it falls.
But for now, we dance,
she smiles, nudges me left then right,
steps upon my hooves to steady me,
as though a gentle holding of hands,
I am one of her truest loves;
Papa is busy leading the herd.
She knows she must leave me again for some time,
she promises to return later,
she nudges my cheek,
licks this warm nose of mine.
Oh, how I wish more of our time could
be spent all together,
Mama, Papa,
fawn/baby, mother, and father,
but it is not meant to be so,
we each have our set roles,
and I most certainly will take this challenge,
I will become nimble and learn not to fall.
It is essential to stand with my own sets of legs,
because one day, oh God, please don’t say when,
Mama and Papa may suddenly be required to go
and perhaps they shan’t return again,
it's a truth I do not want known.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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