Two Clocks on the Sill

On the first night back across an ocean, sleep ends cleanly at three in the morning. There is no grogginess and no alarm—just the sudden, wide-awake certainty that it is five in the afternoon in the place you just left, and your body is ready for early evening tea while the rest of the house and the street outside are fast asleep.

Rather than turning on the overhead lights and breaking the spell, you switch on a single low amber lamp in the corner and put the kettle on. Outside the rain-beaded window glass, tall conifers stand in silver-blue moonlight and drifting valley mist; inside, the walnut table holds a warm pool of honey and copper light.

Sitting side by side near the sill are two small clocks that have not yet agreed on what day it is. The brass bedside clock with its pale luminous hands reads four minutes past three in the dark room, while the unbuckled leather wristwatch resting beside it still points to four minutes past five on the other side of the Pacific—holding two different skies on the same piece of wood while the roasted tea cools enough to drink.