I lost my father's watch.
The one I peeled from his arm
moments after his dying.
There in the living room of my childhood,
the hospital bed loomed in the scant space.
My mother's voice cracked from the kitchen
as she called for them to come
and take his body away.
I sat there holding his grey face,
stroking his long bony hands
as they cooled.
I took the silver Timex from his wrist
and put it on my own.
It carried his last warmth to my arm.
I talked to him then about time,
whispering at the doorway
he'd just passed through.
I knew he was listening.
The band was stretchy with dents from his yardwork-
hardwork- woodcut-who-knows-what.
His sweat slept deep in its crevices.
I wore it too big for a long time, halfway up my forearm --
dwarfed once again by my giant dad.
Every morning when I put it on,
I honored his passage through the door.
I remembered his struggle for breath,
his lying back in my arms --
dear and yellow and gaunt --
and giving up his body.
In that ritual, I nodded to my own death --
a formal bow, then turned more fully toward my life.
Now my potent totem is gone --
like my father -- to a place I cannot follow.
Like him I know it is still here somewhere,
but just beyond my reach.
© 1997 Barbara McAfee
Please contact Barbara for permission to use poem -
(612) 840-9255
