As Time Passes

I was built in the Seventeenth Century by the founding father of the Sorrells family. He built me out of mahogany wood and ivory plating, with golden trim. I had sat in the living room of their old house for many a year, as they're family had grown. He gave the house to his oldest as he took his last breath, and he reluctantly let me stay. I must have grown on him, because he never got rid of me as he swore he did. He had many of children, all of which played on me. One of them, the middle daughter, had broken one of the pendulums off me. Her father threw a fit, and ordered me be fixed immediately. I was fixed the week after, and had no such problem after. He gave me to the same daughter, who insisted on keeping me, much to her husband's dismay. All was fine and dandy, until the house had burned down. I was one of the few things to have survived, the wife heartbroken. They used what money they had to renovate the house, and they also had me reworked as well. I sat in the same spot as once before, brand new. I felt great, almost like a kid would. I would experience many more years, and more fond memories. But the last person that owned the house was bitter, and he wanted nothing to do with the Sorrells family name. He sold the house, and everything in it. I now reside in a antique shop, behind the counter.