The Georgia Review, Summer 1997

Fifty Years

“I found a pair of eyeglasses

at the edge of the woods – ”

an old farmer says in a bar.

And then says nothing. Shrugs,

a cough, small sound without

echo of the farmer’s beer glass

returned to the bar. “Once I

found a wig by the road,”

the bartender says. “Auburn wig.

Picked it up, and this dead

cat was underneath.” “Shut

up,” the farmer says, stands

and looks ready to throw his

glass. The bartender and two

other customers have known this

man all his life. ” The woods,”

he says now. ” Fifty years

ago. A woman’s pair of glasses.

Figured she was in there.

Naked of her glasses, and I

never forgot that.” He stares

at each of the three men.

It’s why I never married,”

he says. ” Why I’ll die alone.”

Dennis Trudell