Winding Memories

My Grandmother's Watch as an Heirloom of Love and Loss

If I had to choose one thing I own that defines an heirloom, it would be my maternal grandmother’s watch. This gold-plated, rounded-square timepiece was a 20th birthday gift from my mom. She had started a tradition of passing down my grandmother’s jewelry and accessories to my sisters and me — waiting for the moment we were old enough to appreciate them — until, at last, the small jewelry box she brought from Taiwan was empty.

Wearing something that once embraced my grandmother’s wrist should make me feel closer to her, but it doesn’t. I never had the chance to meet her because she died when my mom was just 23.

In my teens and twenties, I indulged in my mom's storytelling about my grandmother. Her eyes would light up as she described my grandmother’s round fingers rhythmically pinching dumpling wrappers into neat pleats. These memories illuminate my mom in unexpected ways — like glitter catching and releasing light.

Left: My grandmother with my aunt. Right: Portrait of my grandmother and mom painted by Szu-Chieh Yun

From her stories I stitched together a cinematic image of my grandmother. I pictured her browsing a bustling market in a flowing silk blouse, her hair perfectly coiffed, 24K gold rings glinting as she squeezed mangoes in search of the ripest one. If there’s one thing I know about my grandmother, it’s that she had impeccable taste. She knew how to shop and spot quality. Decades later, the watch’s machinery still runs solid and the chipping gold feels almost intentional — like patina on a sculpture.

When I received the watch, it came with specific care instructions. I remember rolling my eyes (playfully, of course) as my mom repeated what the technician had said after tuning it up and resizing it. Since it’s not battery-powered, it must be wound every 24 hours. It should be kept out of direct sunlight and away from heaters to prevent damage to the dial. She also couldn’t resist telling me that it cost $200 to refurbish, but that the technician, impressed by its craftsmanship, offered $1,000 to buy it (“in USD,” she emphasized).

Now, in my thirties, my chest tightens when I hear stories about my grandmother. The distance between my mom and her mother feels greater with time. What once felt like a tender trip down memory lane now feels like a deliberate act of preservation — a way to hold onto the glitter before it settles into silence.

View from my grandparents’ cemetery

In spring 2023, after nearly two decades away from Tainan — my mom’s hometown — my younger sister and I brought our mom back for a long-awaited homecoming. Our trip coincided with the Qingming holiday, or Tomb Sweeping Day. In Chinese tradition, sǎomù — the act of tomb sweeping — is a gesture of reverence. We tend to the gravesites of ancestors, honoring them with food, flowers, and the burning of fake bills to pad their celestial bank accounts. For the more traditional, incense is lit and words are exchanged — sometimes in prayer, sometimes in the quiet language of emotions carried for years.

In the countryside where my grandparents are buried, the heat drained the once-vibrant greenery into a wash of lifeless beige. Although my mom was finally reunited with her parents, it was her mother she had been yearning to see. She knelt before her mother’s headstone, her palms pressed into the earth, her back heaving up and down.

As I stood beside her, hesitating before rubbing her back in circular motions, I realized there was a part of her life that I would never fully reach — something sacred and sealed in the absence of her mother.

My mom and me

I wish we could visit Taiwan every year to sǎomù. I want to know what my mom feels when she’s with her mother. It’s through that connection that my mom begins to unravel, revealing parts of herself I have yet to meet. For many of us from traditional Asian families, trying to access our parents’ lives before they became our parents is like knocking on a door that won’t open. Whenever I ask about her younger days, I usually get a breezy, “That was in the past.”

But annual trips are unlikely. Limited PTO, time-stealing jet lag, and the rising cost of airfare make it hard. And for my family, going back to the motherland is never just a vacation. You’re expected to see every relative, attend every gathering, and never show up empty-handed. (And in this economy? Tariff-fying.)

Instead, a smaller ritual takes place.

Each morning, I reach for the watch on my nightstand, gently pinch the crown, and wind it backward until I hear a faint click — restarting its journey through 86,400 seconds, 1,440 minutes, and exactly 24 hours.

Maybe in this practice, I can shorten the distance between my mom and her mother. Maybe I can keep that beaming, youthful version of my mom open to me.

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