My grandfather would read Raymond Chandler mystery novels at night while lying on the couch. He’d sometimes read aloud to me, saying a phrase in Italian. I didn’t understand, but I liked the rhythm he gave the words. When he finished, he would pick up his pocket watch, look at it intently, and announce it was time for bed. Upstairs, he would place the watch on my nightstand and I would fall asleep to the rhythm of its ticking.
He gave me the watch when I graduated high school. I was enchanted by its heavy gold case, the clear, bold numbers and its tiny inset second hand. You could see and hear time passing. Still, this was 1968, and it didn’t match my bell-bottom pants! So I put it in a small box in my top dresser drawer. Each time I moved to a new location, the watch came along. Each time I opened the box, I would wind the watch, raise it to my ear to hear it mark time, and think of my grandfather.
He would write letters to his brother in Italy, early in the morning at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and milk from a large cup. Writing, sipping, looking out the window at the garden, and occasionally taking out the watch to check the time.
Summers he’d spend all day in the garden, turning soil, planting seeds, watering tomatoes and onions, cucumbers and carrots, lettuces and fruit trees. I remember how he’d crumble the black soil in his hand, then, brushing it off, he’d take out the watch.
He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black trousers with cuffs, and black shoes — cap-toe, I think. His hair was white, his face tan. There was a tattoo on his left forearm, though I don’t remember any details about it. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and owned one suit, which he wore on Sundays for church. He looked regal in that suit, a gold chain anchoring the watch to his vest pocket.
I have no photographs of my grandfather, but I can see him clearly, walking the length of the garden, becoming smaller as he reached the far end, then larger as he walked back. He’d stop, wipe his glasses with a handkerchief, examine the fruit on a plant, check the time, then continue toward me, a peach in hand.
Recently, while going through some boxes, I found the watch. I hadn’t seen it in years. It had stopped at 2:28. After a polish, it looked just as it did in my grandfather’s hands. I admired a swallow engraved on the back, a beloved symbol of southern Italy, where he was from. Swallows also represent going home — or rediscovering who you are. I wound the watch and there it was, that reassuring rhythm! I hooked the chain to my belt loop and slid it into my pocket.
Now, when I wake each morning, I reach for the watch on my nightstand and check the time.
This story appears in the December 2024 issue of Deseret Magazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.