time to let go

"time to let go" by Saanvi

Artwork by Nika

My dad bought me this watch from Switzerland when I was in the fifth grade. I was so obsessed with it. At 10 years old, my school had only recently started allowing kids in my grade to start wearing watches and I felt so cool wearing it. It was perfect. It was black and dotted with colours all over. It didn't have any actual numbers on the dial so I learnt how to tell the time with just the colourful dots, learnt the exact spot of each number on the 7 cm radius watch. The blue dot was 12, the yellow one 3. I used to feel bad whenever someone gifted me a watch because I knew–still know– I would never use that watch, never love it the way I love this one. 

The strap fit me perfectly when looped in the very last hole. I learnt every single detail about that watch over the next few years. I even fought my older sister for it because she seemed to think it was just as cool as I thought it was. 

I’m in the 12th grade now. And its time has come to a close. 

I find this ordeal strangely poetic. 

My watch has stopped working once every two months for the past 6 months, which is strange because that never used to happen before. 

Now, as I exit my school life, the watch is taking its last breaths, flickering between life and death, telling me I can’t take it with me wherever I go next and that I am meant to leave her back here.

I still take it to school with me, even though it doesn’t tell the correct time on more than half of the occasions. 

Perhaps I am deluded enough to believe whatever the watch tells me is correct. I trust it utterly and completely. 

The strap still fits me in the last hole, the blue dot still marks 12. Now, I find it hard to tell time on any other regular clocks; I have to take a second to get used to the fact that it isn’t my watch. I have a tan line on my wrist on the spot I wear that watch because I wear it so very often and I feel a strange sense of pride everytime I see it.  

But it’s all fading with time. 

I recall all the times someone tried to make me believe I had grown out of the watch and that it was “childish”. Polka dots aren’t in fashion anymore and perhaps they never were. The polka dots weren’t why I wore that watch though. 

Perhaps I am hopeful enough to believe whatever time this watch tells me is correct. 

It’s 11:01 (It’s 10:15).

This watch has made history with me, she’s seen me be 10, then 13, then 14, 15, 16. I could recount all the times someone complimented my watch easily, for I was so happy to receive the remarks that I kept them with me, pocketed inside. Even my dad does not realise how important it is to me. And truth to be told, I don't exactly see why I love it the way I do. Maybe it’s because the first that was ever truly mine. The first thing that people started associating with my person. My first big girl thing. My first special item. Maybe I liked the fact that my dad bought it for me. Honestly, I'm unsure. 

All that I do know is that the blue dot marks 12 and the yellow one marks 3 and this watch belongs, belonged, and will belong to me the way the stars belong in the sky. 

I am assured enough to believe whatever time this watch tells me is correct. 

And right now, it is telling me it's the end of all my beginnings.