I knew, of course, that this is possible. It happens unexpectedly. You're going about your normal life, thinking that everything's hunky-dory and suddenly, something reminds you of some ache of the soul.
The night before we left on our Thanksgiving adventure, I stopped at the little watch repair place near my subway stop. I'd been carrying my dad's watch in the pouch of my messenger bag for, like, two months, and since I'd been released early from The Velvet Prison™, I figured I could take a few mintues before going home to pack and finally get a new wrist band for the watch.
At first I'd been reluctant to get an altogether new band for the watch, since the metallic band was holding up well; it really only needed to have a couple of links removed. But I've always had a bit of a problem with those metallic bands — they tend to grab and yank on my forearm hair.
So I finally made the decision to go and have the band replaced. A bit of a big step, psychologically, since the watch was my father's retirement gift, and I was reluctant to change it.
Still, I wanted to be able to wear the watch, since my mom gave it to me as a keepsake.
Anway, long story short (too late!), I've been wearing the watch since right before Thanksgiving, and pretty much every time I look at it, I'm reminded of my dad.
They're happy memories, and mostly when I see it, I picture him, with his silly sorta old guy grin, and I think about what he did to earn that watch. It was his retirement gift from the Port Authority of Allegheny County. It's not great shakes, as watches go — it's a Wittnauer — but it's gold and understated and tasteful, sort of like my dad wasn't. Or, as my dad could be when he wanted, but generally chose not to be. He was a bit of a merry prankster, which precludes, much of the time, understatement.
Anyway, this morning I was walking to work along West 58th Street, and I happened to glance down at the time. For some reason, I was struck by the fact that now my dad's been gone over a year, and somehow I still expect him to answer the phone when I call home. Or I still expect him to be sitting down to family dinners with us when I'm visiting. Or I still expect to see hiim wearing his stupid santa hat when I'm home for Christmas. And, of course, he isn't doing any of those things anymore.
And I was okay with that, if a little melancholy... but then as I glanced back up to watch where I was walking, my eyes lit on the front license plate of a car that was parked along 58th Street, and I saw the same license plate my dad kept on his car.
And I just lost it.
No doubt, all the busy New Yorkers stomping to work along 58th Street that morning thought I was some sort of teary-eyed pansy, but I had a nice little cry. Not a huge gnashing of teeth, tearing-of-cloth sorta cry. Just a nice I-miss-you-you-old-fart weeper.
Nice, huh?
The night before we left on our Thanksgiving adventure, I stopped at the little watch repair place near my subway stop. I'd been carrying my dad's watch in the pouch of my messenger bag for, like, two months, and since I'd been released early from The Velvet Prison™, I figured I could take a few mintues before going home to pack and finally get a new wrist band for the watch.
At first I'd been reluctant to get an altogether new band for the watch, since the metallic band was holding up well; it really only needed to have a couple of links removed. But I've always had a bit of a problem with those metallic bands — they tend to grab and yank on my forearm hair.
So I finally made the decision to go and have the band replaced. A bit of a big step, psychologically, since the watch was my father's retirement gift, and I was reluctant to change it.
Still, I wanted to be able to wear the watch, since my mom gave it to me as a keepsake.
Anway, long story short (too late!), I've been wearing the watch since right before Thanksgiving, and pretty much every time I look at it, I'm reminded of my dad.
They're happy memories, and mostly when I see it, I picture him, with his silly sorta old guy grin, and I think about what he did to earn that watch. It was his retirement gift from the Port Authority of Allegheny County. It's not great shakes, as watches go — it's a Wittnauer — but it's gold and understated and tasteful, sort of like my dad wasn't. Or, as my dad could be when he wanted, but generally chose not to be. He was a bit of a merry prankster, which precludes, much of the time, understatement.
Anyway, this morning I was walking to work along West 58th Street, and I happened to glance down at the time. For some reason, I was struck by the fact that now my dad's been gone over a year, and somehow I still expect him to answer the phone when I call home. Or I still expect him to be sitting down to family dinners with us when I'm visiting. Or I still expect to see hiim wearing his stupid santa hat when I'm home for Christmas. And, of course, he isn't doing any of those things anymore.And I was okay with that, if a little melancholy... but then as I glanced back up to watch where I was walking, my eyes lit on the front license plate of a car that was parked along 58th Street, and I saw the same license plate my dad kept on his car.And I just lost it.
No doubt, all the busy New Yorkers stomping to work along 58th Street that morning thought I was some sort of teary-eyed pansy, but I had a nice little cry. Not a huge gnashing of teeth, tearing-of-cloth sorta cry. Just a nice I-miss-you-you-old-fart weeper.
Nice, huh?
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