SmokeLong Quarterly

I can’t remember this watch not on his body. I do remember him taking it off occasionally, only because I remember the click of its oyster clasp. I can’t recall the ritual of him removing it. Was it bedtime? Was it bathtime? I take it off for neither. I am an orphaned puppy, tuned into it like some surrogate heartbeat. Its weight on my wrist is a comfort. An anchor. It is worth more than anything I own. Look at me. I am a feral, unkempt woman in my early forties, homemade tattoos peeking out from under the steel linked band of a Rolex. You might think I have no need for a watch to be waterproof up to a thousand feet, but you’d be wrong. This grief has crushing depths and I am its diver. Did you know it’s the ascent that bends you, that jackknifes you in sudden pain? Images bubble up and embolize. The nurse opening the clasp and sliding it off him. The second hand slowing, stopping. I am far too young to have outlived my parents. My wrist is so small. But it was my Daddy taught me how to dive. This is how you return from the abyss. Keep your blood in your body, baby. Ignore the gun under the bed. Leave the pearls on the bottom, the terrors in their cave. Release a little air from your vest and rise.

“Submariner” is the third-place winner in The SmokeLong Grand Micro Contest 2025.