It was a marvelous instrument,
It didn’t seem to be in its natural habitat
but somehow
it really did belong there.
On the wall in the corridor,
not exactly across from the kitchen
in the general direction of the living room
High above it all,
there stood (well, hung) Grandpa’s Cuckoo Clock.
Two heavy, chubby wooden pine cones hanging from it
slowly making their descent towards the floor (or were they climbing towards the ceiling?)
The mahogany wood creating a perfect resonance chamber and of course, the cherry on top:
The Cuckoo.
Every half hour he would emerge from his crypt declaring:
Cuckoo
When we were lucky enough to visit the grandparents before noon,
we would gain the whole monologue:
Cuckoo
Cuckoo
Cuckoo
on and on until the twelfth Cuckoo.
A pause settled on the apartment,
we would gather (as much as three girls could in a second floor, no elevator, one-bedroom apartment)
and stare bewitched at the Cuckoo clock.
How does he know how to count like that?
How does he not tire?
And what,
which was the biggest mystery of all,
what does he do inside his cave the rest of the time?
On the one hand, the Cuckoo had a very restful life:
All that was required of him was the one Cuckoo every half past the hour, and the other Cuckoos on the hour.
But, oh, the suspense,
the meticulous trace of the elusive clock hands,
the tension:
27
28
29
Ready?
Steady?
GOOOOO

Every now and then
the clock would take pity on the Cuckoo, slow its pace and start laying out its own time.
Then Grandpa,
and no one but him (no, not you, only Grandpa is allowed to)
would ceremoniously mount the one stool and gently wind the pine cones,
which had almost reached the floor,
slowly up the wall,
all the way up to their nest from where they could once again start their descent.
And although it was merely a small break,
and maybe he liked this deviation from his routine
he always sounded happier on his next Cuckoo.
Order has been resumed,
Once again the world is stable,
Cuckoo