I’d gotten so used to its timekeeping that when it finally stopped I thought at first that it was my watch that was off. But no, it was Dad’s. Almost nine years to the day that he left this world (which is today), his watch stopped ticking. 

I felt bereft, as I knew I would. That watch says Dad to me now. I have so few things that were his. I can still remember how it looked on his wrist, peeking out from beneath one of the long-sleeved knit shirts he liked to wear. 

Of course, the watch will keep its prominent position on my dressing table. But its beating heart is gone. 

I tell myself I had it nine years — just like we had Dad for ninety — but it’s never enough, is it?