Silent

The alarm clock is dead.

The one my father gave me.

The hands are stopped at 11:03,

which is either when the battery went bad

or when time just got tired.

I reach for it every morning.

That's the worst part.

Not that it stopped.

That my hand still knows where it is.

For years it was the first sound.

That small mechanical click,

the tiny bell starting its argument with the dark.

I would fumble for it, half-awake,

grateful that something had decided

I was worth waking up for.

Now the battery compartment on the back

is just a rectangle of nothing.

I could open it.

I could fix it.

But then it would start ticking again

and the silence would stop being

what I'm used to.

My father never asked if I was using it.

He just knew I was the kind of person

who would keep a thing like that,

keep it on the nightstand,

keep reaching for it

even after it stopped working.

The hands are still at 11:03.

They've been at 11:03

longer than they ever moved.