John and I went to visit a woman whose husband had passed away the previous winter. He was the chef in the family, and took particular care in cooking the turkey at Thanksgiving, and a prime cut for Christmas. This was the first big holiday without him at the head of the table. Which would be hard.
As chance would have it a relative wanted to know his secrets and emailed him asking for directions. What followed was a four page, detailed account including basting, temperature, spices, and times. Since he often celebrated in the mountains, the relative playfully inquired about whether the specifics were for sea level or a mile up. He gave a lengthy response.
What it meant was that the family had a written record with which to follow his tradition. He had gone on without them. Now maybe they could too.
He died in a plane crash and his wife had wanted to find the watch he was wearing, which did not turn up. Quietly word spread in the small town, and many people went out with metal detectors searching for it. But no watch ever appeared.
Three seasons came and went with all the precipitation common to the Rocky mountains. Then on the birthday of another pilot, she was delivering a gift at the airport when a friend texted. He and his son had felt the itch to go looking a last time, and after taking a few steps in one direction..... there was the watch. It had been buried in snow for months, then submerged in water, after which it baked in the summer sun.
He met them at the hangar to give it to her. It was just over two weeks until her late husband's birthday, and there could have been no better present to celebrate his life. Plus when she held it to her ear she heard it.
It was still ticking.
It ran for almost two years after that, nestled in her jewelry box. By the time the battery finally wore out she was ready to accept its stillness.
