after he died, i wore my father’s watch

an old bulky HMT you had to wind,

and too large for my wrist. i fought 

my mother for it, Baba used it all the time,

when he still had time.

it was heavy and real and reminded me

of all that i lost. of course i lost the watch,

it slipped off me when i was on my bike, weaving

among traffic, i never even felt it fall,

but missed the weight when i came to a stop. i don’t

know how he endured the pain, smiled at me,  

was cheerful, stuck in that bed, that room

and never complained or said “why me?”

He ensured his affairs were in order, we would not suffer

his loss, had the house painted, for he had plans

to be born again, to go through school and life

and do all the things he missed in this. 

that last time i saw him alive he was smiling, eager

to see my shitty, selfish, student self, my mouth full

of impoliteness that i did not know how to close

my lips around. He taught me that when he left, 

one last lesson learned from such a exuberant force.

not that he went marching happily, he just knew

the end was near. so he nestled me against his shoulder 

and taught me to endure. when i lost that watch

i lost so much… entirely on my watch, it seemed,

to me, that i was doomed to misery, vibrantly callous,

the weight on my wrist shifting, dissecting my soul. 

i also learned weights were weighed not by tears

but the exuberance of old souls i wear on my wrist.