My daughter is just like a magpie: she loves anything shiny (and she’ll also swoop down to attack your face, given half the chance). So when my husband plays with her, often she’ll reach out to touch his watch, play with the chain, slobber all over the glass face.
Except it isn’t his, not originally – it was my father’s, and my mother gave it to my husband as a thirtieth birthday present.
I remember seeing it on my dad’s strong, thick wrist, hearing the click of the metal links as he put it on each morning before he left for work. Even when he took off the watch at night it was never really gone, because you could see its sharp, white outline on his tanned skin.
When I see my daughter in my husband’s arms, grabbing at his watch, I think about what it would have meant to my dad to have had his first grandchild in his arms, grabbing at his watch. I don’t believe that he’s watching us through some little peephole in the clouds of heaven.
But I like it when I see my daughter looking at his watch.
It gives me a chance to tell her more about her Grandpa, who would have loved her so much.
Welcome to Day 12 of 31 Days of Mundane Narratives! For the month of October I will be a storyteller. Together with a few friends we will browse the forgotten photos in our galleries and tell the stories that are so often lost in busyness.
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