A little boy approached me with a cracked plastic watch on his wrist. He wanted to know whether we could repair the strap. I looked at the watch and asked what it meant to him. His grandfather had given it to him before moving to another state, he explained. The watch wasn't expensive, but he wore it every day. I told him we could inspect the strap and see what was safe to repair or replace. He grinned and pulled up a chair. As we worked, he told me about his grandfather's stories and the visits he hoped to make during school vacation. The watch became a reason for him to talk about someone he loved. I listened.
When the new strap was fitted, the boy fastened the watch around his wrist and held it up to the light. “Now it looks almost new,” he said. I smiled. “Almost.” He examined a tiny scratch near the case. Then he shrugged. “That's okay. It's still mine.” I felt the words settle gently inside me. They belonged to the boy's watch, but they also seemed to answer something I'd spent years trying to understand. A person could carry marks left by experience and still belong wholly to himself. A scar did not erase his dignity. A public humiliation did not transfer ownership of his life to the person who caused it.
My niece came over when the boy had gone. She asked whether I was thinking about the station again. I smiled. “A little.” She looked concerned. I told her it was all right. Remembering wasn't the same as being trapped. We watched the children clean the workbenches, carefully putting tools back in their places. One girl reminded another to label the parts tray so the next group would know what belonged where. My niece laughed and said she had apparently turned everyone into a documentation fanatic. I told her that was excellent news. Then we carried the unused components into storage and locked the workshop.
Outside, the afternoon light was warm and gentle. The parking lot was nearly empty. My niece walked beside me toward the car, talking about her plans for the next semester. I listened, occasionally asking questions. She wanted to study the intersection of public infrastructure, accessibility, and communication technology. She worried there might not be a single job title covering all those interests. I told her not to let a title decide the size of a problem she was willing to solve. She smiled and said I was getting philosophical again. I laughed. “Occupational hazard.”