Leftovers

This watch was my father’s.
It is worth nothing.
Not in gold.
Not in precision.
Not even in affection.

It is one of four things I have left from him,
apart from my life, of course, and a certain way
of accentuating quick passages in classical music.
And maybe my phone voice.

I keep the watch
together with the two small harmonicas and
the choir leader’s ugly tuner, which doesn’t work,
on a shelf
in our living room.

They are leftovers.
Not given.
Not appreciated.
Not in use.

I found them in a box sent by my stepsister to one of my half-sisters.

My father, like me, was married three times. It can be confusing for others. But we, in the family, know who is who.

In his will, my father wrote this not so logical sentence, and I quote:

 ”My children and my grandchildren are not part of my family. I therefore leave everything to my adopted daughter.”

My half sister kept the box unopened
for six months before
she could find the courage
to look inside.
She was less disappointed in the content
than of him
while he was still alive.

What did she expect?
The hope to not feel insignificant, apparently, to never fade.

Would he have looked at her with a graceful gaze and smiled softly from his grave?
Would our stepsister have put a diamond ring or some long-forgotten love letters from his youth into that box?

Sometimes a box is just a box.
I keep the watch and the harmonicas as reminders to never take anything for granted.
Not even a parent’s love.
The ugly tuner is in use by our grandchild who plays with it like a cellphone.
One day he’ll know who “gave” it to him
and hopefully
he’ll throw it away.