That old watch you had

Wednesday, July 20, 2011       •       6 Comments

There’s this old watch my grandpa used to wear. For as long as I have memories of him I know he’s worn that watch. It’s face is rounded on the edges like a magnifying glass, the digits obscured from the scratches on the surface but large and beckoning. The strap is nothing but woven strands of tiny yarn, or string, that are now frayed at the edges.  And a rustic clasp at the end that had imprinted itself onto the frayed strap revealing its age.

It was the one thing that was as constant as my grandpa. Grandpa was consistent and predictable if nothing else. We could predict that he’d be irritated when we got home late from the rose festival despite the fact that we were more than old enough (and with adult company) to take care of ourselves.  We could predict that he’d wake up before the sun is even thinking about waking up itself, to go bike miles so he could tend to his little plots of vegetables and fruits and herbs. We could predict that he’ll sneak questions in about Dad’s smoking habits only to call him, tell him how bad it is, how much it had damaged him years ago, and hope Dad listens.

Grandpa was the only person I knew that had the face and demeanor of a soldier. Stoic. Unmovable. Straight shooting. Strict. But had the heart of an angel.  He’d gently grab the phone from grandma’s frustrated fingers so he could make sure she heard the precious words coming from loved ones overseas.  Only his reassuring pat on the shoulder would ease her mind that her family will be back to visit. To visit while they’re still there.  Still biking. Still tending to the land. Still tuning his watch. While he reassured grandma, wiping her tears away, no one reassured him.

And now, I hold his watch. Its face demanding  to tell me it’s secrets.  With each tick a new whispered secret. With each tock a new whispered memory. And as I wind it up, the memories tick and tock back at me.