Here stands my tallcase clock ticking each time its wooden pendulum swings and chiming the hours and every half hour. Its brass movement inside its cherry-wood case is powered by two brass cylinders filled with lead hanging on brass chains that I pull to reset every Saturday. It’s simple; it’s reassuring. The two hands of its brass face sweep across finite hours and infinite space. It stands in time and makes time understandable, not merely repeated movements disguised as time. Each swing is a second, each minute a day, each hour a year, and twelve hours is a lifetime.