Dad’s Rolex

When my father passed away, everyone in the family talked about the house. The savings. The paperwork. Nobody talked about the watch.

It wasn’t rare. It wasn’t one of those six-figure Daytonas you see online. Just an old Rolex Datejust he’d worn almost every single day for thirty years.

The bracelet was stretched. The crystal had scratches. It gained almost two minutes every week. Most collectors would probably call it “well loved.” I call it home.

Every tiny scratch reminds me of a different memory. Holding my bicycle while I learned to ride. Helping me move into college. Walking me down the aisle on my wedding day.

Sometimes I catch myself winding it even when I know it still works perfectly. It isn’t about keeping time. It’s about keeping him close.

People spend years searching for grail pieces. Mine was already sitting in my father’s drawer.