The clock in my room sounds like hail on a window. Every time I return after months gone, I search for something that’s changed. I search sadistically, knowing I will be horrified the day I come back to find my closet is a skeleton. I search for the pen I use to write thank you letters. I find the pen under the clock in my room, which sounds like hail on a window in a city accustomed to 80 degree days. In April my parents moved a lamp from their bedside to mine. My shrinking room does not need a lamp that watches, tries to guess what sweater I will wear, or mocks my skipping vinyls. In October I spent a weekend with my grandparents. My grandma gave me a crystal ladybug and a dream catcher, which I had space for. I put them next to the pen I’ll use to help me thank her. Later she pulled a license out of her wallet, which I expected to be hers. But it was my grandpa’s, and expired. We laughed when my father remembered him looking better. The black and midnight blue jacket my grandpa wore, he told us, he traded a high schooler once for ten dollars. His hair was darker, then, and the jacket tighter. In my room, he and my dad balanced the needle on my record player. The clock in my room sounds like hail, angry at my window, in a city that misses the summer. My grandma thinks that she, my mother, and I choose the same type of men. Her nails are plum, my mom’s red-orange, and mine a perfect apple. 

I don’t need a clock, 

I’ve got seasons and my room 

still has a heartbeat.