It was an old Seiko his parents had given him for graduation in 1972.
The crystal was scratched.
The leather band had been replaced several times.
He wore it every single day.
I thought it would be one of the things he would want at the facility.
The watch was inside the drawer.
But behind it, wedged between the drawer and the back of the nightstand, was an envelope.
Cream-colored.
Old.
My name was written on the front.
Linda.
David’s handwriting.
Then I saw the line beneath it.
For Linda,
