Careful

Some boxes have names. The one that I drag out from the attic I call the dead people's box. Old stuff in it belongs to people who came before me. People whose blood lines I do not share but are family. This time of year allows for the annual sift. I remember now what stays here. This time I remove a box in the box. It's a small one that came in the mail unexpectedly many days past. Inside I see deep-sea fishing lures, a man's wooden valet tray, and two wrist watches with silver bands. Neither time piece sound a tick-tock. Both dangle from my wrist and fall off. I take the dress watch to a repair shop tucked between a movie theater and spectacle store. The repairman tells me that I'm lucky because the battery did not leak on the parts. "It's from the 80s," he says, "My wife would love it." I do too and wear it out the door wondering how long it will be before I scratch the crystal. My traits do not include delicacy with fine objects so I return with the second watch. This sturdy piece shows wear from days of manual labor. With a new battery and links removed, it circles my wrist with a masculine weight easily held. The white face and black numbers stand out, making it easy to read. I work with my hands everyday typing on a computer. I will try not to damage my new find when I wear it.