My Mother’s Watch

By Christie Lund Coles

I wear my mother’s watch

upon a chain

that falls about my throat

in golden grace;

I think of how she wore it

pinned to her breast

beside a frill of lace.

I see her opening its thin,

engraved lid,

watching the hands that moved

through many days

and many dark-eyed nights.

I shed a tear

recalling how it ticked

her life away.

And now is ticking mine.