There is a four-foot cherry wood dresser that sits in my mother’s bedroom. On the top sits a honey-colored jewelry box, with two drawers filled with tiny fragments of her life. Rings, necklaces and assorted items collected over a lifetime. Most were gifts from my dad, some from my brothers and me. Beside it sits a sea urchin lamp my mother made after one of our trips. Other nicknacks are scattered across the top along with a large eyed, cream and tan stuffed sloth. In the far corner of the top right-hand drawer, with a variety of clothing, sits a small bundle wrapped in a soft cloth and my dad’s old handkerchiefs. Carefully placed there by my mother’s hands.

If you were to lift that small bundle from the drawer and carefully unwrap the layers placed around it, nestled inside you would find my father’s wristwatch. It isn’t the one he wore the day they married so long ago, but the last one he wore before everything changed. It has a slightly worn golden-colored watch band that’s interlocking pieces gently stretched to allow his wrist to slip easily through. Scratches are sprinkled around its perimeter from years of wear on his left arm. The crystal is still clear with minute scratches, while the bezel still shines, allowing the reflections to dance across the ceiling and walls as it moves ever so slightly in your hands, catching the incoming sunlight just right. Although there was more than one watch, this last one continued the mission just as the ones before it had. In essence, carrying on, time uninterrupted.,

Those watches were there when his three kids were born and when he held each grandchild for the first time. For every walk with my mother, my grandmothers, or me, a watch always quietly hugged my dad’s wrist, silently keeping time. Always present for lessons in baseball or softball, basketball or shooting pool, skating and bowling. I can’t remember a day when there wasn’t one present, at least until his last two years.

The watch was there on dad’s wrist, as my arm encircled his and my right hand rested just above where it sat. In the exact same moment, he walked me to my future husband, while his watch recorded the time. It was there when each of my brothers married their wives and the days he said his final goodbyes to his father-in-law, his mother and mother-in-law. The watch that was placed so carefully in the dresser drawer, was the one he wore the day his oldest son took his last breath. It was on his wrist the day our world changed, and his mind just couldn’t tame the dementia any longer. That was when the gold-colored watch came off and was replaced by an inexpensive black one. He told everyone in the Healthcare Facility about it. In his mind it was a wonderful gift from someone who cared. At some point during the pandemic lockdown, his roommate ended up in possession of it. By then it didn’t matter to dad, he didn’t remember it. Dad’s watch was already gently wrapped, quietly sitting in a drawer.

Inside that dresser, where the watch sits so carefully wrapped, my mother’s wedding ring now joins it. My mother wore that ring every day for the fifty-seven years they were married and after dad passed away, until the metal was worn so thin, it was ready to wear through. Another ring is sitting on that finger now. Like dad’s watches, mom’s new ring is continuing the mission, uninterrupted.