I was at my partnerās great-uncleās funeral this past weekend. He was the patriarch of the clan. Heatherās family is Scottish: he came over after Korea, with his wife from Jersey (a story in and of itself). He was bigger than life in some ways, and kind and decent, and everything Iāve heard says to me that Iām sad I didnāt get to meet him.
It was sorrowful, and happy in remembrance, and I got to see her family again (they have absolutely welcomed me, and I appreciate them so much). I wore my Drive Extra Flat. I wore it because I thought āboy, this watch is beautiful on my dresser, but leaves me cold on the wrist, but selling a watch is such a pain in the ass so I never have done so, so I should probably wear it.ā
At the wake, after, the youngest adult grand-daughter of the decedent, whom I adore (vibrant, smart, fun as hell, striking out on her own at the end of her college career in secondary education and the first openly gay member of the family) kept looking at my wrist (jacket off and sleeves rolled up). I of course noticed. She finally got around to asking what the watch was, because she just was fascinated and loved it. I took it off and handed it to her and told her what it was and said ātry it on.ā
There have been a few times where I have seen somebodyās life just shift a little by an object. I of course immediately said it was hers. Sending the box and papers off to her tomorrow. Iām sure sheāll wear it for the rest of her life, and sheāll remember me every time she puts it on, when Iām long gone.
I have a form of āsellerās remorseā now, of course: it was so damned pretty on my dresser!
Thought the ācase watch people would like the little story. Watches arenāt worth anything if they arenāt worn.
[Edits because I got some of the family details wrong as I thought about it.]