Timepiece

Time’s stood still on Pop’s watch since the day he died. Ma went through his things and gave most of his shit to Goodwill, but she wanted me to have the watch. So, I keep the battered Timex safely locked away in a strongbox under my bed. I wish I could tell Ma that there’s no safe place to lock away memories of Pop. But my guess is she’s got plenty of shit she wishes she could lock away. Sometimes, I think I can hear that damn watch ticking away like it used to whenever Pop would pass out in his chair after one too many Boilermakers. But I know it’s dead to the world, like Pop. I also know that winding the motherfucker is all it would take to resuscitate its worn-out sprockets. Worst of all, though, I know for a fact that its tiny, tinny ticking would resurrect all those drunken times Pop’s breath would catch and click on his false teeth every time he’d smack me goodnight.