My brother’s watch is cheap and rubber. While not disposable, it sits as a filler for a future timepiece. My mother’s is small and dainty, but carefully studded with just enough charming sparkles to turn an attentive eye to it. Subtle, yet striking at seemingly identical times. Hers is a watch I know only she can wear.

But my watch, as glorious and proud as it once was, is a soldier wounded from war. A crack fissures the glass like a river splits the land. It runs jaggedly along the face of the clock, distorting the numerals behind it. The watch that once hugged my wrist like a sloth hugs a tree is now in need of replacement. It is a difficult decision, to pick a watch. But I’d like my new one to be like my father’s.

His is bold and profound, as if bragging about his accomplishments and adventures. It has no diamonds, no gold, no expensive leather, but it has character. It says hellos, it waves goodbyes, it laughs out loud, it tenderly cries. At the end of the day, a watch is there to tell the time. But, my father’s watch is so much more, am I wrong for his to be like mine?