Song 17 of 20
Song 17 of 20
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Some time has passed since the death. His brother comes to see him and gets him out of the house for a walk. There is no grand conversation and no attempt to solve anything. They move through the neighborhood, speak when there is something to say, fall quiet when there isn't, and continue for another block when he feels able. It is one of his first small movements back into the world outside the house.
My knuckles hover near your doorYou open first, eyes on the floorThe leash hangs lightly from your handThe dog leans forward; there you standI nod. You nod. No need to talkWe let the dog decide the walkThe cold comes clean across the streetYou find the road beneath your feet
You glance behind; your feet move onI fall in step as night turns dawn
I cannot carry all you lostStill, I can share the morning frostI’ll walk alongside, fast or slowI’ll stop whenever you say noWe keep on walking, block by blockYour footfalls are the only clockHome waits whenever you say whenCome morning, we can walk again
Back home, the red-stamped notice waitsYou trace the charges, check the datesYou read each line, then read once moreI hang my coat beside the doorYou make the call; your voice stays lowYou work the numbers, row by rowYou find the card; the charge goes throughYour shoulders fall an inch or two
You set the phone beside the billThe room goes quiet; you sit still
I cannot carry all you lostStill, I can share the morning frostI’ll walk alongside, fast or slowI’ll stop whenever you say noWe keep on walking, block by blockYour footfalls are the only clockHome waits whenever you say whenCome morning, we can walk again
Three nights later, same winter streetOur footsteps find a steady beatI tell you how Dad wrecked the shedYou laugh so hard you duck your headYour laughter catches halfway throughI say no word; I wait with youAt our old corner, I slow downYou say, “Let’s walk another round”
I cannot carry what you lostStill, I can share the morning frostYou point beyond the amber glowAnother street; you choose to goYou keep on walking, block by blockYour footfalls are the only clockHome waits whenever you say whenTomorrow, we start out again
We walk one quiet street through townYour shoes keep time against the ground
You glance behind; your feet move onI fall in step as night turns dawn
I cannot carry all you lostStill, I can share the morning frostI’ll walk alongside, fast or slowI’ll stop whenever you say noWe keep on walking, block by blockYour footfalls are the only clockHome waits whenever you say whenCome morning, we can walk again
Back home, the red-stamped notice waitsYou trace the charges, check the datesYou read each line, then read once moreI hang my coat beside the doorYou make the call; your voice stays lowYou work the numbers, row by rowYou find the card; the charge goes throughYour shoulders fall an inch or two
You set the phone beside the billThe room goes quiet; you sit still
I cannot carry all you lostStill, I can share the morning frostI’ll walk alongside, fast or slowI’ll stop whenever you say noWe keep on walking, block by blockYour footfalls are the only clockHome waits whenever you say whenCome morning, we can walk again
Three nights later, same winter streetOur footsteps find a steady beatI tell you how Dad wrecked the shedYou laugh so hard you duck your headYour laughter catches halfway throughI say no word; I wait with youAt our old corner, I slow downYou say, “Let’s walk another round”
I cannot carry what you lostStill, I can share the morning frostYou point beyond the amber glowAnother street; you choose to goYou keep on walking, block by blockYour footfalls are the only clockHome waits whenever you say whenTomorrow, we start out again
We walk one quiet street through townYour shoes keep time against the ground
Behind The Song
Behind The Song
The Only Clock rejects one of the most persistent myths about grief: that healthy mourning should move forward according to a recognizable schedule.
There is no emotional stopwatch.
A person can handle a difficult task in the afternoon and collapse that evening. He can laugh sincerely and feel guilty seconds later. He can have a better week followed by a terrible morning.
None of those reversals prove that the earlier movement was false.
Grief often oscillates between two kinds of attention: turning toward the loss and turning toward the demands of the changed life.
This song makes that movement physical.
Walk. Stop. Handle the bill. Go quiet. Laugh. Ache. Walk again.
The brother understands something important without ever explaining it: his job is not to solve grief.
He cannot carry the loss. He cannot replace the wife. He cannot tell the widower when it is time to recover. He can simply remain present while another person performs the next manageable action.
That companionship has enormous value precisely because it asks so little.
The widower also begins recovering something essential: agency.
At first movement is supported by another person, a dog, a bill, necessity.
Then, at the corner, he chooses another round.
That is tiny.
It is also everything the song needs.
Action can precede emotion.
We do not always have to feel ready before doing the next reality-based thing.
And a functioning hour is not a betrayal of grief.
The title gives the song its humane standard.
No calendar on the wall decides the pace.
For now, his own footsteps are the only clock that matters.
The Takeaway
The Takeaway
Recovery does not begin after grief has finished. It begins inside grief, often through actions so small they hardly resemble recovery at all: getting up, answering something that must be answered, walking another block, allowing another person to walk beside you. We do not need to stop hurting before we resume living; sometimes living is part of how the mind slowly learns what life has become.
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