Wednesday, August 13, 2014

The Statue

I'm thinking about the antique bronze clock statue with no feet because I'm moving soon and she started to feel like dead weight awhile ago, even before I wrapped her in a thick blanket like a mummy and stuck her in the back of the closet.

Her feet fell off one night

when I bumped the sturdy sculpture-stand she was perched on and she fell, a crash of a sound that immediately started the loud dudes downstairs banging on the ceiling, as if on cue at 2 a.m., waiting for me to commit just one sound offense.

I put the feet in a separate blanket and laid it to rest at the foot--well, where the foot-feet would have been had the antique bronze clock statue with no feet had feet.

This beautiful piece of sculpture, long since non-clock-functional, sat on my grandmother's mantel for years, central to her schema. In less than six months, I had cashed in on the pot of gold of Irish guilt in breaking it, by accident of course. (I swear!)

I start to also think of that Poe story, and how maybe now I can never restore her feet, even through a fortuitous recommendation of a skilled but reasonable repairer, because now she has reason--and, let's face it, license--to be pretty disappointed in me, if not in an outright rage. She is my Abu Ghraib, I'm afraid; I cannot afford to set her free, having ensured she'd be my enemy, if she could ever walk again, if she could ever walk. I also cannot let her go.

This stalemate continues, soon to be in motion, still to be.


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