Now And Forever Poem by Will Thomas

When I was nine,
I broke my father's watch.
Not the silver Timex he wore around his wrist-
the (tarnished) gold pocket watch
swaddled in soft cloth
at the very back of his top dresser drawer.

His own father had left it to him,
a wedding gift from my grandfather's bride
in a time too far away to believe.

Sometimes,
while my parents fought,
I would tiptoe to the dresser,
remove the timepiece from its bunting,
and spirit it away with me to the attic.
I cannot tell you why.

Once there,
and barely breathing,
I would hold it.
Open it.
Reverently finger the words inscribed inside.

An outer shell of decades-darkened gold.
An inner vow
as clean and clear as morning:
'Now... and always'

One night,
the watch tumbled
from my frantic, fumbling fingers,
bouncing along
every
single
wooden
step,
from the attic to the second floor.

A little while later,
I carried the shattered facing
and the twisted hands
to my father.
For once, he was beyond anger,
without words.

So...
two or three times a week
for the next month or so,
before he came home from work,
I would place something on his pillow:
a Warren Spahn baseball card,
a handful of Coca-Cola bottle caps,
a marble,
the oldest Roosevelt dime from my collection.

At first,
he said nothing.
And for a hopeful nine-year-old boy,
the silence became sweet understanding.

In time, however, his question came.
And my answer:
'Because...
because I can't give you what I want to give,
so I'm giving you these things instead.'

His eyes spoke:
it wasn't, they sadly assured me, enough.

Now,
almost a half century later,
this is the way I live my life:
offering (tender) bits and (painful) pieces.
Heartfelt trinkets of consolation
for the one thing I can never completely give-

my
self.