The End of a Story
And to my granddaughter, Laura …, the man typed in a burst. A wheezing gasp wracked his body.
Slowly now, one letter at a time: I b e q u e a t h...
His pudgy, veined hands were trembling and his heart was struggling to keep up with that damned clock’s ticking. The typing grew careless.
… my grat-grndfatjers clock taht sits inmy office
As he pulled the page from the clutches of the typewriter, his eyes scanned the room in desperation, as if searching for a soul to witness this final act.
He grabbed a pen from the drawer at his elbow. It had a faded real-estate add printed down its side which promised “the house of your dreams.â€? The tip of the pen met paper and scrawled out a shaky signature beside the date.
The man’s fingers lingered on the name of his granddaughter for an extra tick of the clock.
When the man’s heartbeat thudded to a stop, the leather chair fell into a respectful silence. But the clock had no time to say goodbye; it was too busy marking the seconds.