My Father’s Watch

Another beautifully written vignette of human existence by Peter Wells.

countingducks

I did not know my father, he died before I became conscious enough about life to recognise a face or understand a situation so I was largely raised by my aunt for long period sas my mother often went missing somewhere in her mind,  locked in her bedroom, wrapping herself in grief and religion, or something of that sort: we never had a chat involving the sharing of emotions.

From the age of eighteen my father’s watch, curiously non-committal it must be said, as it no longer worked and read eleven-thirty six regardless of the hour, was fixed to my wrist as a momento of a person I never met but thought about regularly: it connected me to him.

Out of good manners I take it off while I bath, and lay it on the shelf by the tub so its fragile workings are not further damaged by water. It has never pretended to be more than it is or made a promise it could…

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