The director of the great books program I am in has this clock in his office that makes an electric chiming noise on the hour. I don’t think it was here during our last session with him. My grandparents had a clock that made the same chiming sound in their old house in Santa Barbara. I remember sitting in my grandparents’ living room, watching television, and hearing the time pass. I haven’t been in that room in years. My grandfather died, my grandmother moved to Wisconsin, and then she passed away. I didn’t even remember most of the details of their house when I was trying to remember her after her funeral. But, at seven o’clock last night, my brain rushed back to that house. I was half my current age, spending the night in the back room. I walked out of the room and down the hallway, looking into each of the rooms in the house. Small details that I had forgotten to remember over the last several years suddenly flooded into my mind, and I remembered how it felt to be a child. All because of the chime of a clock in Dr. Reynolds’ office.

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