Omega

The first time I saw it was on the stained 
ivory face of my father's Seamaster De Ville— 

like half a miniature burnished circle 
pressing down into a sumo squat— before 

I learned Omega was the last letter of 
the Greek alphabet; the symbol for the end.

It was a hand-me-down, a gift from a wealthy 
cousin who smoked cigars, drove sports cars 

and sent his children to schools in Europe 
or America. In Revelation, God calls himself 

the Alpha and the Omega. This means, he 
who is and was and who is yet to come; 

in other words, infinity or the eternal.  
My father cherished the watch, perhaps  

among the most expensive personal items he'd ever 
come to own. When it stopped or ran fast or slow, 

he took it to the Indian shopkeeper on Session
Road, who knew about such things. I'm not sure,

but it must have been buried with him when 
he died. My father was not infinite or eternal. 

Clear as a timepiece wrapped around my wrist, only 
his memory ticks in my mind with no beginning or end.