I will die. My father has died.
But the watch. It has a chance to be kept around. To make the cut. To retain worthiness in someone’s eyes at some future date. It has a chance. Because it is, somehow, real.
In the final hours of (the Manhattan event) WatchTime, I slip on my father’s tiny gold Movado and take it for a spin around the room. It is forty years out of fashion, has a scratched face, and its gold has gone to dull. And I couldn’t care less.
This is not for you.
This is for me.
The way it makes me feel is real.
But the watch. It has a chance to be kept around. To make the cut. To retain worthiness in someone’s eyes at some future date. It has a chance. Because it is, somehow, real.
In the final hours of (the Manhattan event) WatchTime, I slip on my father’s tiny gold Movado and take it for a spin around the room. It is forty years out of fashion, has a scratched face, and its gold has gone to dull. And I couldn’t care less.
This is not for you.
This is for me.
The way it makes me feel is real.