My Grandfather's Watch Has Been Stuck at 4:17 for 30 Years—I Refuse to Fix It My grandfather's watch has been stopped at 4:17 for as long as I've owned it, and I have never once tried to fix it. Everyone assumes I just haven't gotten around to it. The truth is I'm afraid of what I'd lose if I did. ――― He wore it every day for thirty-one years, through two jobs, one war, four grandchildren, and it was on his wrist the day he taught me to swim, holding my back above the water with the hand that wore it, so that even now, if I close my eyes in a pool, I can feel the cool metal of its band against my spine. ――― It stopped the week he died, which everyone said was just a coincidence, a battery running out at a random moment that happened to matter because of what else was happening that week. I know that's true. I still think about it every time I look at 4:17 on any other clock. ――― What I actually inherited Not the watch. Not really. I inherited a stopped moment, a specific number on a specific dial that means nothing to anyone who wasn't there, and means almost everything to me. If I fixed it, it would just be a watch again, accurate, useful, and I would have traded the one thing it actually gives me for something I can buy at any store. ――― Why some objects should stay broken A working watch tells you the time. A broken watch, stopped at the right moment, tells you where someone used to be, and lets you visit that moment every time you check. I don't wear it. I keep it in a drawer, and once or twice a year, I take it out, and hold it, and for a few seconds, it's not 1994 anymore for me, it's just a hand, around my hand, holding me up in the water. ――― From Homeriah Some objects matter more broken than working. The value isn't in what they do — it's in the exact moment they stopped. ――― Memory Prompt Find one object that belonged to someone you've lost. Don't fix it, don't clean it, don't change it. Just hold it for a minute and write down what comes back to you.