Watches and Workshop
On the old man’s wrist was an old wristwatch with scratches on the glass. When he noticed me looking, he blushed. “It’s my wife’s keepsake. She used to say time isn’t something you ‘hold’ but something you ‘use’.” The second hand was running a little slow. But that lag felt somehow human and warm.
“I want to thank you. Would you come with me to the workshop?” Behind South Congress, a rusted sign read “Greene Woodworks.” Raising the shutter, the scent of wood filled the air. A partially carved bench, tools on shelves, photos on the wall. Harold in his youth, and a woman wearing the same watch. Someone’s life mingled with the atmosphere.
