I write to the sound of one clock ticking. That would be a lot of ticks in some houses, but in this house, it means we’re down by two clocks. It’s the cuckoo clock this time, the cuckoo I mourned in an essay long ago.

A year ago, when I was home alone for a couple weeks, I remember writing in my journal about the sound of three clocks ticking. It was like jumping rope double-Dutch or playing all three contrapuntal parts of a Bach fugue, the satisfying finger-twisting struggle of it all. 

It isn’t difficult to vibrate to one chord, to rock to one beat. I like to think that having multiple ticks and tocks keeps me limber, aurally speaking.

Time for the cuckoo clock repair shop.