Only Now

I lived in a prison. I was around people every day, but I was utterly alone. An afterthought. All thoughts toward the future, toward what I would do when things got better. Life was bad for years, but my thoughts rested in the hope that the future would save me from everything. Funny how the future never seemed to arrive. Before his death, my grandfather left me a package, with instructions to not open it until my imprisonment was over. There it sat, at the foot of my bed. A paper weight. A dust collector. I spent countless hours trying to figure out what was wrong with my life, my thoughts, my ways, but I could never figure out exactly what the fuck was wrong with me; all I knew was that I was unhappy. Know thyself? I hated myself, so the more I learned, the worse I felt. No love, no friends, only the walls of the cell, the literature, and thoughts. Endless thoughts of mistakes made, loves lost and unattained, and so many unfulfilled desires, dreams. Prison is a time of removal and self reflection, so perhaps it was time well spent. Always trying to improve. Trying, longing, waiting, writing. Even trips to the store, buying energy for a broken vessel, making small talk with with people who live on a plus one, minus one emotional scale made me feel alienated. I wondered if they could handle living on a plus ten, minus ten scale.

Gradually, I was set free. It wasn't a sudden thing, but the realization that I was just fine came as a sort of shock. A flawed mechanic should not try to fix a car. A miserable person should not try to fix the self; they should do good work and just let the repairs happen naturally. Growth cannot be forced. Epiphany is false.

Out of prison, I was still as secluded as before, but in better company, with better work. It mattered not that I didn't see anyone, that I was a ghost. There was a measure of peace. One day, I suddenly remembered the box my grandpa had given me.

I went to my bedroom in my apartment and found my grandfather's box where it had always been. After wiping the dust away, I carefully cut the packing tape with my pocket knife. When I first grabbed the box, I thought to rip it open with reckless abandon, but I caught myself. If I could keep myself calm in a matter of great personal importance, then I should be able to keep my wits about me during any situation. The outer box contained an inner, nicer box. I undid the latch and opened the inner box. The first thing I saw was a note, which read:

You know what I taught you. Open what is beneath
this note when you think that good days will greet you
in the near future. I have one final lesson for you.
The thing does not matter, but what it symbolizes certainly does.

That seemed to be pretty near the truth, so I looked beneath the note to see my grandfather's pocket watch.

I remembered seeing it many times throughout my childhood, though I never once saw him open it. Often, when I would ask him if I could see it, he would tell me that I could see it when I was old enough to know what it meant. For most of my life, his refusal to let me see a simple watch confused me. Why did it mean so much to him? Even during times that I wanted to know what time it was, he never used his watch to tell me; he either looked at a clock, or if we were out, would claim that it didn't matter, that I should just enjoy myself.

As I held the watch in my hand, I thought back on how often I had wanted to see it, and how often I was told to wait. I was mindful of the chain, the coolness of the metal, and of how big of a mnemonic device the watch really was. After many minutes of reflection, as I wanted to savor what would be my last new experience in dealing with Grandpa, I pried the watch open. Inside was a watch which could not be used to measure time, an image of a group of stars, and a small piece of paper. A handwritten haiku was on the paper; a final lesson well received:

Ever restless I

Have removed the hands of time

There is only now

-The Wolf