A Grandfather's Watch

I’ll be the first to admit that I didn’t live the most responsible life – well, for the first thirty years or so of it, anyway. I partied too much in school, had a ton of fun but never really thought about what the repercussions could be as I got older. That was always for an older me to worry about.

The current me always said yes to beers after work, thought the word “overtime” only applied to drunk nights or dates with hot women, and had the time of my life every step of the way. I never really thought of the changes I started seeing as a sign of me getting older; it seemed like my friends were all getting older but I was still the same young, happy partier I always was. When I say changes, I mean the regular, every day cycle of life many people experience – putting more focus on a career rather than a job, a meaningful relationship rather than dating, even a family eventually. These are all things that I wanted at some point too, but while I saw them taking hold in my friend’s lives I just…..thought we weren’t that old yet.

That was when turning thirty hit me. It was right around the corner, and that was always the age that I thought of as being a grown-up. The plan as a kid for my thirties was to be established; good career, family, taking my kids to baseball practice after work like my father had always done with me. Here I was though – late twenties with four jobs in the last five years, no real savings to speak of and no relationship longer than two months to my credit.

It was finally time to grow up, but I had no idea where to start. I thought about turning to my family, but the very thought of it washed a torrential wave of shame over me every time. It looked like I was going to have to take the long way, and if it took me a few more years to get my act together so be it. Hell, I’ll even admit that when the thought of being more responsible proved to be overwhelming I’d hit the beer and video games that much harder for a day or two.

Life continued this way for the next couple of years. I was back and forth between trying to clean myself up and trying to continue my adolescent habits depending on the week, but the shameful feeling never really left. I knew my friends and family could tell I was bothered, but everyone had their own lives to tend to, just as I was realizing mine was my own mess to clean up.

One person that I always thought looked at me a little differently though was my grandfather. In those few years I learned to spot the look of pity in the eyes of people around me, especially if I did something stupid like getting too drunk at a kid’s birthday party and excusing myself to go puke in the bushes. Yes, that was me.

With my grandfather though, there wasn’t as much a look of pity as one that I could only describe as….interest. I knew that he had experienced enough of life (and done well enough for himself, especially as he had to constantly ‘loan’ me money over the years) but as we both aged and I began to realize how unsuccessful of an adult I had become what I saw in his eyes was a look of curiosity, almost like he was waiting for me to do something. Watching. Probably waiting for me to grow up and do something worthwhile for once, I thought often.

It wasn’t long before it seemed that wouldn’t matter either, unfortunately. I was still in my early thirties and wrestling with making something of myself, but I got a phone call one night that my grandfather had suffered a heart attack. Not just a heart attack either, it was a “widow maker” as they call it, almost in a strangely affectionate way. He was in the hospital and not expected to make it through the night.

“If you want to come see him and say goodbye you should come now.” Mom had said.

That was the night I took a cab to the hospital to drunkenly say goodbye to my grandfather.

He wasn’t awake, and I was told he most likely wouldn’t wake again. They were keeping him sedated to keep him calm, but there was a single digit percent chance he would ever open his eyes again. Even in the state I was in this hit home, and I just wanted out. I wanted to finish my goodbye quickly, hop back in the cab and disappear into the bottle until it was absolutely necessary to surface again.

I could tell my parents were eager to get me out of there as well (they knew my drinking habits well enough to know I couldn’t fake sobriety). There was one other thing before I left though, and through glazed, red eyes my mother handed me a small envelope.

“Here. He left this for you, and told us all only you could open it.”

I thought about opening it there but couldn’t bear it. This was the last gift my grandfather was going to give me, and he couldn’t even do it himself. He couldn’t look me in eye, shake my hand or even ruffle my hair like he used to when I was a kid.

I needed out of there. More importantly, I needed a drink.

I took the envelope with me, unopened. I held it for the cab ride home, held it tighter going up the stairs to my crappy little apartment, and continued to hold it as I poured my next drink, this time with a slightly shakier hand.

Don’t ask me how long it was before the call came in, I wouldn’t be able to tell you in regular time. It was four and a half drinks later, that much I know.

My grandfather had passed away.

The tears came a minute after I hung up on my crying mother, and I said a quick prayer for my grandfather’s soul.

I then reached for my drink, but through the fog of my consciousness I realized I was still holding the envelope he had left me. It was time to open it, and then have another drink. The drink could wait long enough for that.

I tried to push out the thought that my grandfather would never see me open another gift as I pulled on the envelope. No more Christmas mornings, no more birthday presents. He had always given the best presents, and in my mind the only gift I had given him in return was having him watch his grandson grow into an utter failure.

The tears rolled as the paper gave way, and I pulled out his old, broken antique pocket watch. I had seen him walk around with it for years as a kid, and I had asked him countless times why it didn’t work. His answer had always been the same.

“It works just fine when I want it to.”

It was a meaningful gift, but I was slightly curious why he had left it for me. Sure, it was one of those funny mementos from childhood that we had discussed many times, but a broken watch was a funny keepsake to have ready all those years later. Still, it was a perfect gift from a perfect man, and I cherished it. The clock read 8:20 on the twelve hour dial and would until I tried to change it.

I had almost put the envelope in the garbage when I noticed there was a small note folded up inside. Taking it out as quickly as I could to see what he had written I almost dropped the watch itself. I decided sitting down for this part was probably a good idea.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I unfolded the small scrap of paper that had been inside. Before I opened it, I could see the indents of my grandfather’s pen marks, and lovingly moved my thumb over them.

Written inside was a strange, short phrase.

Be good and be safe with this.

The “be good” part I could understand. My grandfather had never been one to criticize my lifestyle openly, but I knew he had been very attentive to my lack of effort in life. Always watching.

It was the second part I had trouble understanding. Sure, since it was a keepsake (and obviously had quite some value to my grandfather to have it around this long) but it was still just a broken watch. Even if it had been working, I wasn’t sure how to go about being unsafe with such an item.

It didn’t matter. It was a gift from my grandfather, and he wouldn’t be able to give me any others. I was going to keep it always.

The rest of the night was a blur, not surprisingly. I know I drank more. A lot. I fell over at least once, and vaguely remembered cutting my hand open when a sandwich at midnight sounded like the smartest idea in a year.

At some point after that I fell asleep, but I’m not sure if I blacked out or not first. Somehow, I slept through the night, most likely from the alcoholic coma I had put myself into to avoid thinking about real life. There was the usual headache, but not as bad as I thought it would be. In fact, I didn’t really feel like I had drank that much at all, which could’ve been a good thing or a bad thing.

Either way, I decided I should get ready and go see my parents. I had to apologize (again) for the state I had been in the night before, and I was sure they could use some help with the arrangements.

I noticed a weird thing getting ready but dismissed it quickly. The cut on my hand was gone. It must not have been as bad as I had thought the night before. I grabbed the watch, put it safely in my pocket and headed out.

Arriving at my parent’s house I saw my dad out cutting the lawn. He gave me a friendly wave, a little more friendly than I would’ve expected under the circumstances. Maybe a touch of denial.

Walking inside I could hear my mom moving things around in the kitchen. Most likely getting things ready for the swarm of friends and relatives that would be stopping in to offer condolences, most of them with some type of casserole to re-heat in the days ahead.

I didn’t feel ready to face her, didn’t feel ready to see the tears and feel like there was nothing I could do to help. Still, she had heard me come in….and there was something else…. she was humming.

Something was starting to feel strange about the morning. I walked into the kitchen not knowing what to expect, but certainly never thinking I would open the door to what I saw next.

My grandfather was at the table, having a morning coffee like he would do most mornings when my mom was home.

A flood of emotions came over me, but the biggest one at that moment was utter confusion. How was this possible? Had I dreamt the whole thing? No, it had been real. Very real.

My mom hadn’t seen me yet. Her back was to me while she finished up the dishes, still humming. Trying to get a grip on my emotions, I realized that my grandpa was looking at me the whole time. Again, he had that curious look in his eyes. Just watching me.

I realized my hand was on the watch in my pocket, which seemed to be the only tie I had to my actual reality. He had left it to me. When he died. Yet he was sitting in front of me, watching.

I pulled the broken watch out of my pocket, turning it over in my hands. It now read 5:15.

I looked up at my grandfather, who now had a slight smile on his face and raised a finger to his lips. Shhhhhh.

Looking at him I remembered the note he had left me. Be good and be safe with this.

As if he could read my next thought he nodded, never breaking eye contact. I looked at my own watch, not caring about the time. It was the date I was after.

It read three weeks earlier than the day my grandpa had died. It was impossible to believe, but it was the truth.

I now realized why my grandfather had always watched me so carefully. He had been looking for someone to leave the pocket watch to. Now that I had it - now that I know he trusted me with it - I knew what it could mean. I was ready to do better with my life.

I ended up going back as far as high school. It was certainly strange to be back in my younger body, to see my old friends and even my parents as younger people. It came with an amazing gift though, which was that I remembered my lessons of my life before. I paid attention in class and actually learned the second time around. I kept myself in better shape, and while I was happy to have a couple of beers with friends, I managed to avoid booze for the most part.

Was it cheating life/death/destiny? I’m sure it was in a way, but I did my best to only do good for people and hoped for the best.

This time around when I was headed for thirty it was with a successful job, an amazing wife and two small children. I was thankful every day for what I had, and never let myself forget what life had been like without any of it.

The watch remained a secret between my grandfather and I. As the years went by and we got closer to the day I remembered he died, somehow I knew history in that part would repeat itself.

I sat by his bedside this time around, sober and while naturally very sad, I was also curious.

“Grandpa…. you know how appreciative I am of what you did, but…. why did you give the watch up? Why let yourself get this old, especially when….”

I didn’t want to say what I was thinking. When now you’re going to die.

He turned to me, the look in his eyes the same I had always remembered and always will. He didn’t say anything at first but looked out the window at my two small children playing outside.

“If you spend your whole life worrying about your past, you’ll never appreciate what the future can hold for you.”

Those words still resonate to this day, and the watch stays safely in my pocket. I don’t plan on using it again; I find I have no reason to. I’m content to watch my children grow, and one day hopefully the same with my own grandchildren.

Maybe no one will need to use it. Just in case though, I’ll keep it safe for my family. They’re on my watch now.