A Ticking Synopsis

He created timepieces—standing grandfather clocks with pendulums swiftly swinging, delicate wrist watches, and a large variety of clocks mounted on the gray walls. I knew next to nothing about him at first. He stood as tall as the grandfather clocks he built, but walked with a limp in private; one that would disappear completely in public. For years, I helped him in his workshop, determined to make him my friend. He became my role model; my brother. I called him C.M.

I had accidentally found his workshop one day in May. It had been raining on-and-off all that week and I had been caught in the brunt of the storm two miles from home, in the middle of nowhere. I entered an abandoned building through a small hole in a low window. Inside my unofficial shelter from the pouring rain, there was a thick blanket of dust that gave everything, including the windows, a gray tint. Everything, that is, except the clocks. There were perhaps hundreds of them, all different in one way or another and without a speck of dust. Some stood tall and erect in corners, others sat idly on collapsing, wooden tables that were scattered all over the large, damp room. The letters C.M were written in careful lettering somewhere on the face of each timepiece I saw.

C.M. gave me a watch for my birthday. I kept it on my wrist where ever I went, only taking it off to shower. It was one that I knew must have taken months to complete. Clear glass was all that kept me from touching the spinning gears inside. Tough leather bands, sewn together with thick threads, clasped around my small wrist. The round, golden face had shined even in the earl-gray room of C.M's workshop, its bezel and case decorated with intricate swirls and spirals. Surrounded by the silver hour numbers were three letters: T.C.M.

He never told me his real name so I resorted to calling him C.M. He refused to do nothing else but glare at me throughout our first interaction and limped slightly as he walked; one leg shorter than the other. Almost everything about him was dark—his clothes, shoes, and skin—but his eyes which were like the color of a clear, blue sky. He never smiled or gave me a cheery greeting—for he seldom spoke at all—but even then, he had his ways of showing that he thought of me greatly. C.M. taught me how to repair old watch springs and replace used batteries and soon his workshop became my home away from home. Though I only called him two letters, C.M. was my brother.