When I was nine, br I broke my father's watch. br Not the silver Timex he wore around his wrist- br the (tarnished) gold pocket watch br swaddled in soft cloth br at the very back of his top dresser drawer. br br His own father had left it to him, br a wedding gift from my grandfather's bride br in a time too far away to believe. br br Sometimes, br while my parents fought, br I would tiptoe to the dresser, br remove the timepiece from its bunting, br and spirit it away with me to the attic. br I cannot tell you why. br br Once there, br and barely breathing, br I would hold it. br Open it. br Reverently finger the words inscribed inside. br br An outer shell of decades-darkened gold. br An inner vow br as clean and clear as morning: br 'Now... and always' br br One night, br the watch tumbled br from my frantic, fumbling fingers, br bouncing along br every br single br wooden br step, br from the attic to the second floor. br br A little while later, br I carried the shattered facing br and the twisted hands br to my father. br For once, he was beyond anger, br without words. br br So... br two or three times a week br for the next month or so, br before he came home from work, br I would place something on his pillow: br a Warren Spahn baseball card, br a handful of Coca-Cola bottle caps, br a marble, br the oldest Roosevelt dime from my collection. br br At first, br he said nothing. br And for a hopeful nine-year-old boy, br the silence became sweet understanding. br br In time, however, his question came. br And my answer: br 'Because... br because I can't give you what I want to give, br so I'm giving you these things instead.' br br His eyes spoke: br it wasn't, they sadly assured me, enough. br br Now, br almost a half century later, br this is the way I live my life: br offering (tender) bits and (painful) pieces. br Heartfelt trinkets of consolation br for the one thing I can never completely give- br br my br self.