The sound of clocks makes for clean closets

Every year when my children go back to school, I spend a good solid day frolicking through my
house enjoying the peace and accomplishing tasks.  I turn on either the television to a show that is not animated or music of my own liking, or sometimes I just turn everything off and scare myself silly at the silence because it’s not something I have heard in many months.
This year, I did just that.  I turned off all noises and sipped tea in the kitchen while sorting though a pile of mail that had been accumulating since May and I heard the strangest sound: the clock that hangs on the wall.
My grandmother bought me the simple clock when we moved into our house over eight years ago, but I swear I never knew it actually made noise.  I thought it was some new-fangled fancy clock that had moving parts but didn’t tick-tock like clocks normally do, but I was completely wrong. 
The clock makes noise.  I was floored.  I nearly spit tea out on the overdue bills.
It was this quiet, creepy rhythm that was telling me to take advantage of the freedom from the noises and distractions and constant messes and to finally do something monumental and, as far as housework goes, colossal.  It was telling me to embrace the fact I now had the opportunity to do all of those things I had wanted to do over the summer when I was convinced I would have more time, which I didn’t.
So I did what any mother feeling a taste of freedom would do:  I cleaned my office closet.
My office closet is the place is kind of like the black hole of all things junky, and I have been working on this massive collection for eight years.  It is where I have put things that had no place, that couldn’t be classified into any sort of realistic category other than junk or general miscellany.
Any time something would break, I would think to myself, “maybe I could use these parts for something,” and stick it in my closet.
If there was an odd button or piece of string or even a piece of scrap granite countertop I found when they were building a house down the road, I would say, “this would be just perfect for a craft project,” and put it in my closet.
If I had an odd memento such as a child’s art project or a photo of my grandmother or even a nightgown that I received when I was ten years old that I just can’t seem to part with, I would think, “this is too special to throw away, so I’ll just stick it in my closet.”
But my closet is only so large, and even at it’s full capacity it isn’t big enough to hold all of the ideas in my head.  So I had to sit down, in the peace of my own home with the clock ticking away in the background, and sift through unfinished projects and memories.

Some things were easy.  Forty thousand finger-painted masterpieces were easy to decide upon, and that piece of granite found its way out the back door.  Pieces parts were tossed and various items were combined to make for the illusion of neatness.  But all the memories were too much to handle and in between ticks and tocks I cursed my own sentimental self and packed them all away into boxes where they will be neatly storied in the basement until further notice.  Something tells me that there will come a day when the clock ticking won’t only happen in late August, and I’ll have all the time in the world to sort through my so-called junk.  And I’ll love every minute of it.


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