Click, Clack. Click, Clack. Amber Roth Click, clack. Click, clack. The clock echoed through the house. It was an old clock, the same clock my great-great-great-grandfather owned, and as a result my grandfather insisted that we keep it in the house and not in the garage where it belonged. There was something gloomy and sad about the old clock. It was as if it were counting down the days that we had left on this planet, counting down the moments that we would spend with our loved ones, counting down the moments that we would see the sun rise or the moon fall. Yet, it meant so much to my grandfather. My grandfather had come to live with my family when my grandmother passed away. He played a huge role in every one of my family member’s lives. He was the one in the house that you could go to with any problem and he would make it all go away. He would even read me nursery rhymes as a child to try and cheer me up. He smelled of old oils and ginger bread cookies, a smell that had come to feel welcoming, a smell that came to represent home. Click, clack. Click, clack, echoed through the hallway. It wasn’t the same noise that I had heard a million different times in my grandfather’s room. It wasn’t the same clock that I had woken up to thousands of time. It was a much different sound: footprints. Where was I? I asked my mother, where had my grandfather gone? My mother’s face was plain. It looked as if she hadn’t slept in days. For the first time in my life, my mother appeared to look much older to me. Her soft and warm skin, which I had slept on many nights, now looked rough and cold. She quickly told me that my grandfather had been in an accident and that we were currently in the hospital. Click clack. Click clack. The hospital clock slowly ticked away. It’s funny what goes through your scrambled mind in a time of crisis. I couldn’t help but notice the similarity between
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