All of Grandpa's clocks were three minutes fast.
The wall clock was three minutes fast. The alarm clock on the nightstand was three minutes fast. The old Shanghai watch on his left wrist was three minutes fast. Even the small plastic round clock stuck to the refrigerator door with a magnet was three minutes fast.
I discovered this when I was seven. The CCTV News opening music played, and I looked up at the wall clock: 19:03. Three minutes off. I dragged over a stool to climb up, just touching the clock hand, when Grandpa shouted from the kitchen—Don't move.
He walked over, wiping his hands. They smelled of scallions.
"The clock isn't broken," he said. "It's just fast."
"Why is it fast?"
He didn't answer. Turned back to the kitchen, where the garlic sprouts sizzled in the pan.
---
Grandma told me later.
When Grandpa was young, he worked at the county textile factory, always late. Not by much, just a little, two or three minutes. Grandma waited for him at the factory gate every day. As the iron gate slowly closed, as others went in in twos and threes, she stood outside, hearing the sound of someone running from the alley—the sound of leather shoes hitting blue stone, rapid, chaotic, heels clacking. Grandpa always burst out from the alley in the last few seconds before the gate closed, panting, sweat all over his forehead.
Every day. In winter, it was even more狼狈, his cotton-padded jacket unbuttoned, his scarf dragging behind him.
One day, Grandma stopped waiting. She stood at the gate, watched him running over, and said one sentence:
"You're three minutes slow your whole life."
The next day, Grandpa set all the clocks in the house three minutes fast. Manually, one by one. Where there were no marks on the dial, he used his fingernail to pry that thin hand.
Never late again after that.
---
I always thought this was just a story about punctuality. A somewhat cute story about an old couple.
Later, I found out it wasn't.
During winter break in college, New Year's Eve, the family watched the Spring Festival Gala in the living room. Grandpa sat in his old rattan chair, the TV volume turned up loud. During an ad break, he suddenly said something. Voice very soft, like talking to himself, almost drowned out by the TV:
"The day your grandma left, I was three minutes late."
I was stunned. Didn't catch it. He didn't say more. Continued watching TV. As if that sentence wasn't meant for anyone.
Later, I pieced together the full picture from Mom.
That afternoon when Grandma had a heart attack, Grandpa rode to the post office to mail a package. March, just beginning of spring, the wind still cold. Grandma was alone in the kitchen warming up leftovers. At 3:07, she collapsed on the floor next to the stove. The porridge in the pot overflowed, poured onto the back of her hand, she didn't move. A neighbor heard the noise, broke down the door, called him.
He rode back. Arrived home at 3:10.
Three minutes.
He spent his whole life adjusting those three minutes. When young, by setting clocks fast, he caught up—caught up to every last few seconds before the iron gate closed, caught up to all the lateness and too-lates.
Except that one time, he didn't catch up.
---
After Grandma passed, the clocks in the house were still three minutes fast.
Every night, Grandpa did the same thing: take off the old Shanghai from his wrist, put it on the nightstand, glance at the time in the upper right corner of the TV. Not to calibrate. To confirm—still three minutes fast.
Then turn off the lights.
He did this action for nineteen years. Like a ritual. Like confirming every day to someone who wasn't there: I'm still chasing. I'm still three minutes ahead of what you said.
