Addah Belle’s pocket watch stands openon my desk like a sandwich boardadvertisement.
I want to shrink down and crawl under it,camping in my ticking tent. Constellationsand bug spray.
Addah Belle knew me. She couldlook at me and tell my future. In her timewomen married.
Addah Belle chose door number twoand taught at a girls’ finishing school,finishing them off for the altar.
Retirement came abruptly. Bourbon andceremonies. The stillness of her roomin the farmhouse. And no Marian.
Two twin beds, like a dormitory, and hermarried sister downstairs with grandkids onlong weekends.
I, her grand niece, tracked inwith pocket frogs, too-close bestfriends and notebooks. She noticed.
Mom cut my unattended hair short.Strangers took me for a boy. A boywith notebooks. Listening to Auntie.
And the pocket watch tent would ticka tick,flashlights and ghost stories on her desk whileshe advised I could be a writer, plan a career.
In her time pocket watches were for men.That might be how it came to her. Tom,the last at bat who walked home
lost, wondering why she wouldn’tmarry him, why remaining at school withMarian was preferable. The watch
forgotten on a wash stand, a library shelf,a parlor bridge table. Tempus abire tibi est. [It’s time for you to go away]The watch she kept and wound, for the sound.
I was a writer when she died. I was a lesbianwhen I found her love letters. Her watch,a flashlight and a tape measure in my drawer.Tempus vitam regit. [Time rules life]