Scratches

This is my watch. Not much to look at now. It keeps good time, but I don’t bother keeping the day and date correct. I remember buying it. Sunglasses Hut in the King of Prussia mall. It looked like a man’s classic watch like I had seen on my father's and grandfathers' wrists, but with the new flair and style of smaller hands tracking the movement of days and hours. It was a watch James Bond could have worn, although less expensive. It has a divers bezel, but I’ve never used it for diving. It represented the refined, precision, and classy person I wanted to be, and for $85 I thought it was a steal.

It’s about 15 years old now. In the picture it looks really beat up, but when I glance at it during the day it faithfully declares that time is still passing. Those scratches were earned over the years. It was on my wrist when I played with my daughter in the pool. It smashed into a rock at the Grand Canyon while my girlfriend and I were taking our first trip together. It was on my arm during the 135 m.p.h. crash that ended my motorcycle racing career. It was with me when my wife slid the wedding ring on my finger.

It’s a testament to where I have been and accomplishments I have attained. It brings back memories both joyful and full of pain. It’s become more than a watch. Those scratches are the etchings I have left in time.

Nikon D800 Tokina 100mm f/2.8 macro @ 100mm f/64 ISO 100 30sec.