A Drawer Full of Time: Observations as a Caregiver

This past Sunday I enjoyed a typical family gathering around the dinner table which always includes comfortable discussions over random topics. This particular day, I shared some stories about my first caregiver client, Bill. He was a dear man, intelligent, fascinating, quiet and particular. We developed a deep bond over the two and a half years I cared for him. Bill passed away in 2021 at the age of 98, just 3 months shy of his 99th birthday (he really wanted to make it to 100).

Sharing stories yesterday reminded me of a poem I wrote, inspired by a moment in time which captures a small aspect of a complex, flawed man whom I had the privilege of knowing at the end of his life. I wrote this poem when I had only known him a few months. I would come to learn that Bill was a man who valued having time pieces all around him. This is not something he ever talked about, but it became evident to me as I got to know him over the next few years, which is why this poem became extra poignant to me.

A DRAWER FULL OF TIME

I was surprised when I opened the drawer

to see a crowd of watches

with frozen faces

staring back at me.

I felt as if I’d opened

a portal to another dimension;

another world —

The past. His past.

Ninety-six years’ worth of living

seemed to be sitting there,

still.

As I stood there in the silence,

I could hear the faint heartbeats

of a few of them

who didn’t want to let go

of the life wound in them.

Decades worth of living

remembered by these timepieces

once perched on the end of his arm ---

or his bride’s.

How vulnerable, fragile and fleeting

is the space called time

that surrounds us as earth dwellers.

We value it too much.

We waste it too much.

We take it for granted too much.

It holds us too much.

We let go of it too much.

We don’t let go enough.

Day after day, the sun rises into setting

as shadows and sunbeams

slowly move across the room

where the drawer full of time

lay hidden and closed

yet still ticking away —

in the empty room when no one is present,

in the hushed room when he sleeps,

in the tired room as he slowly moves through it —

their faint and fading heartbeats;

the frozen, broken faces

lay there next to one another

keeping company in the dark.

Today he spoke of his Scottish ancestors

recalling their simple way of life;

“They worked hard

and did what was needed

without complaining”.

Then pausing, he gathered

the history within his chest,

and said softly;

“I sure hope I don’t disappoint them.”

And for a fleeting moment,

I caught a glimpse of the little boy

clothed with such present-tense devotion

for his past-tense family.

So, while he waits for the reunion,

the legacy they left to him

was also left through him —

waiting to rest upon generations of children

who do not yet know time.

And someday when his casket, too, is closed

and the drawer full of time

is finally emptied and given away —

to perhaps sit quietly

in a ragged box in an antique store —

until the last tick finally fades away

into the fullness of time.

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