making seconds count

I’m more aware of the soft ticking because it’s been many years since a real watch with a second hand has graced my wrist. When the sound catches my ear, each tick reminds me of the last seconds (604,800, if I’m to believe Google) in the last week of my father’s earthly life.

Daddy gave me my first watch as a high school graduation gift. To him, and I suppose his generation, a gold watch symbolized great achievement. Knowing what I know now about his early years of poverty, I’m sure it also brought him pride to be able to buy such a treasure for his baby girl.

Me? I was sadly more ambivalent on the day we went to the jewelry shop on the Courthouse square. Gold? There were plenty of other pretty things in the cases. Rings. Bracelets. Necklaces. Watch? I’d prefer one of those new digital watches with a sporty band. We came home with a gold Seiko. Completely gold—chain links, face, and hands. When he made up his mind, he made up mine as well.

Fitting, I suppose, that I gave him his last watch. The man always wore a watch as part of his routine. Up from bed and dressed around 5:30, pockets filled with wallet, pocket knife, nail clippers, and a throat lozenge. Watch on his wrist.

When I visited a few months ago, I noticed his watch hung loosely, the weight of it bruising the thin skin of his hand. I ordered a new timepiece factoring in all that I knew he wanted.

A large, dark face with white numerals and hands so his dimming eyes could see better. Inexpensive, so he wouldn’t argue that I spent too much. Most importantly, a flexible band. Neuropathy in his fingers left him unable to fasten a watch strap, and he always preferred the flexible band anyway.

I could tell he liked it when it arrived, but it wasn’t tight enough still. I found a jeweler who was kind enough to remove a couple of links after being snubbed by one who let me know that Timex wasn’t in their league.

He loved it and wore it every day. Every day. Even on days he spent more time in bed than out of it. Today, I wear it and every soft tick I hear reminds me of those precious last seconds I was gifted with. The hard seconds of getting up with him through the night and helping him go to the bathroom. The happy seconds spent with family—his kids, grands, and great-grands. The sweet seconds listening to him and Mama tell each other “I love you.” The priceless seconds on his last good night when he repeated for me something he said his mother taught him. “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”

Every second a breath, a memory, a pain, a joy. But, the ticks remind me of more than that last week. They mark his very heartbeat. From the harsh Arkansas delta to a comfortable home surrounded by family grieving his loss. All the innumerable seconds—good, bad, extraordinary, tragic—shaped him into the person he became, thereby shaping us.

We move into life without him more fully aware of how much those seconds count.