At his worktable in the front of the shop,
my grandfather hums his favorite song.
Golden trinkets hang
from long silver hooks,
and below them are a few glass cases
filled with necklaces,
bracelets, and other things
he’s made. In the back:
wooden boxes stacked
full of metal sheets,
and chains of all sizes
and pegboards with tools
and coils of wire.
But today, there is another box,
one I haven’t seen before.
Dark wood, painted green,
with two chains wrapped
around it, and a bulky metal lock.
The wood looks worn,
and engraved all over it
are faded Hebrew words.
I recognize a few I think,
maybe an alef and a nun,
but I haven’t been going to shul
since my father stopped going.
I should know more Hebrew by now.
A candle burns low
in a dish on top of the box.
When my grandfather sees me,
he drops a heavy silver watch
onto his worktable at the back of the shop.
Etan, I’ve designed necklaces
for the fanciest banquets
and mezuzahs for every doorway,
but if I have to fix Mr. Newman’s watch
one more time—it’s over.
It’s unfixable!
I understand that it belonged to his brother,
but there is just no
axle and wheel that can
make this work.