Seven
Tolls of The Clock Tower
By Oscar S. Cisneros
In this urban oasis I sought refuge from the bleating
horns and traffic lights of the city. I wanted the company
of strangers though I spoke to no one and no one spoke
to me. It was enough to live through them, to live near
them as I sat silently on a bench near the only patch
of grass in many blocks.
Couples old and new, parents in pairs, fathers with their
daughters, mothers bearing burdens, and children, so many
children, free to frolic to play and do the happy unexpected
things that children do. Yesterday's cool guy, gruff and
unshaven in orchestrated casualness, beamed at the sight
of his daughter dancing. An adoptive dad tossed about
a screaming laughing boy. A little girl shied away from
a dog whose nose was tall enough to meet her own, until
curiosity overcame her fear. I watched as memories were
made to last a lifetime, the ordinary sorts of moments
that humanize men and women, little girls and little boys.
As the music played, the sun set and I could feel mist
upon my face blowing from the nearby fountain spraying
streams into the air. Seven tolls of the clock tower rang
at the eleventh hour. The children there assembled, some
just days past the first steps of their lives, gazed with
eyes wide open at the tower. I saw the look of wonder
in the youngest of faces. It struck me then, between the
tolls of the clock tower, that there are decisions in
life that reverberate for far longer than they are made,
that sometimes we have to account to ourselves by looking
into the eyes of that which we have made. The consequences
of choice echo forever.
