Alicia hadn’t thought about his watch until she called the hospice nurse to confirm that he was gone. She’d long planned to slip his wedding ring off, curious if the engraving – Ted and Alicia, October 14, 1960 – might still be legible. She’d peeked at her own, but the years had eroded the words.
            It had been a long vigil: She’d arranged a chair beside the bed so she could rest a hand on his chest, sure she would feel the labored breathing stop even if she dozed off. Now she phoned the nurse, and murmured a prayer while she waited.
            She needed help, it turned out, getting the ring; his fingers were as depleted as the rest of his stricken body, but his knuckles seemed bigger than the day she’d slipped it on, standing with him before the parson, almost adolescent in their adult finery.
            he nurse produced a little flask of lotion that helped. “And how about the watch, dear?” she asked. “It looks like a special one, and there’s no point in cremating it with him.”
            “It’s a TAG Heuer. The kids gave us both fancy watches for our 25th anniversary, and he wore it with such pride!”
            The nurse eased it off and handed it to her. Just past 4 a.m., its bold blue face told her; she would remember that. The watch’s years had been fewer and kinder. The engraving on the back was still legible: Ted and Alicia, October 14, 1960.
It was much too big for her wrist, but she slipped it up over her elbow; it proved a comfortable fit on her upper arm.
            “You’ll have trouble reading it there,” the nurse said, “and when you wear something long-sleeved, you won’t even be able to see it.”
            “I don’t need it to tell time. I’ll put the ring on my choker necklace along with the crucifix, but I’ll hardly feel that. I’ll feel his watch, next to my heart. I think I’ll like it there.”
            “Reminder of years together. How many?”
            “Sixty-four. Would have been sixty-five come October.”
            “Oh my! I feel for your loss.”
            “Thank you. Is there anything more I need to do here?”
            “Nothing. We’ll call the funeral home and take care of it all. You go home and get some rest.”
            “I’ll call the kids first. Maybe a nap, and then call a few close friends. I’m lucky; I have a daughter here in town who will back me up.”
            “Make it a long nap. I’m glad to have shared these few nights with you.”
            “Thank you. Appreciate it.”
            She took the elevator down. The lobby was flooded with morning light. She fished in her purse for the keys, paused to remember where she’d parked, and stepped out into the dawn.
            Into the first day of the rest of my life, she thought. She brought her right hand up and almost caressed the watch. Time moves on.

Don Noel is retired from four decades’ prizewinning journalism in Hartford, CT. He took an MFA in Creative Writing from Fairfield University in 2013 at age 80, and has since published more than 100 short stories and essays.