My Watch

I had an epiphany last night. I was taking a shower when the first couple lines of a poem came to me. Or, rather, the things that I have been thinking about for months coalesced into poem form. This never happens to me. My Grandma Hippard wrote books of poetry, but other than a couple of failed assignments in English class and a couple of collaborations with my best friend Steve that started something like "Roses are Red, Violets are Blue...", I have never written any poetry. I didn't even attempt rhyming or making sure they all have the same rythmic meter (See, I had to look that up on Wikipedia. I couldn't remember what it was called.) I really don't do poetry, I'm much more of the "See Grog take woman back to cave' type. However, the words came to me and flowed for two hours last night and it accurately represents the many feelings (yeah, there's a manly word...) I have been having lately. - Logan

I have a watch.

It’s not a Tiffany
Covered in diamonds and bling.
It’s not a masterpiece
Of Swiss engineering
That has gears everywhere
And never needs rewinding.
Not even one of those Japanese models
That is accurate to 27 decimal places.
Often, I have wished it was
One of those cool diver’s watches
That has 16 features listed
And two that aren’t.
The kind that is waterproof
To 20,000 leagues.

It’s just my watch.
Nothing special.
Kind of clunky,
It just tells time.
I got it from my parents.
They bought it for me
The day I was born.
I wore it more and more
As I got older.
One day my mother
Gave it to me.
Said it was mine, now.

But it never ran quite right.
It did the job most of the time,
But some days it was off,
Some days it didn’t run.
Some days one hand didn’t turn.
But mostly it just told time.
I wondered why other watches
Worked better, looked cooler.
But, it really never occurred to me
That it needed to be fixed.

Besides, who would fix it?
Who could take it apart
And make sure that all the parts
Were put back when they were done?
Suppose there were several
Disciplines of watch repair.
If you’re not sure exactly what is wrong,
Then who do you take it to be fixed?

One day, I gave my watch to a friend,
It was all I had to give.
Like the widow and her might, Giving
Your best possession is the penultimate sacrifice.
She kept it in a drawer,
Hidden away.

I thought it was put away
For safekeeping.
Later I found out
That it was hidden away
In embarrassment,
That she valued it as nothing.

A present given in love,
And years later
Tossed back in disdain.

My watch exploded on impact,
A myriad of shiny pieces
Arcing through the air

I sat in the dust, surrounded
By little parts, some
Almost too little to be seen.
I gathered them as a shepherd
Gathers his flocks.
Each piece a small treasure.

It was obvious
From the parts in my hands,
That it had been broken
In the final casual fling of her wrist.

Upon closer examination,
It was evident that there was
Damage inflicted long ago.
And the Damage Done,
As destructive as that toss had been
It had broken along a weak spot
Caused so long ago.

I went to an expert
On watches and their repair.
She explained many things
About watch-making and repair.
Told me that all watches are broken.
Can you believe that?
Why would anyone buy a watch,
If they are all broken to begin with?
Do we have a choice?
Or was that choice made long ago?

I have often thought
That a broken watch
And a contrite spirit
Were silly words
Better off in a country song.
To pass through life
Blisslessly ignorant
Seems a terrible waste.
Of a good watch
And all the time spent winding it.
Now, finally, I have
An inkling of what it takes
In the upkeep of my watch.
And perhaps a little of the upkeep of hers.

I have learned a hard truth.
Only the Watchmaker
Can effect a lasting repair.
Many a shingle has been hung,
Promising ‘Repairs in an Instant’
Or “Repairs that Will Last’,
But I think that haywire
And duct tape are no substitute
For the Master’s hand.
I think, perhaps, we are required
To call upon the Watchmaker in his shop
At least once in this life.
To stroll down the glass-cased aisles
And wonder at it all.

And so my question I would ask,
Do you trust the Maker
Of a broken watch?
Will He fix it this time?
Or will He absently smile
As He sits tinkering at His bench
When He hears that next,
Faraway explosion in the distance?
Can I trust that He has
My best interest at heart
When His creation,
So flawed and imperfect,
Without so much as an
Instruction booklet
Or an owner’s manual,
Was intended to break
So that I would have to return
To the Master’s shop?
Planned obsolescence is not
Something I like in the car that I buy,
Let alone for something
As important as my watch.

Whom can I trust?
And do I have a choice?
If the only One who can build it
Is the only One who can fix it,
Then, perhaps, Freedom
Is simply the choice of whether
To have it fixed, or to slip it in the bottom
Of the junk drawer.

One last thing occurs to me.
Was the watch ever mine to begin with?
Just because one buys something,
Doesn't mean that he owns it.
Perhaps there is no owner's manual
Available, as I was never the owner
In the first place.

-Logan Hippard
alone
August 24, 2012
Edmonton, Alberta