New Spectacles, 1727Micki Myers
What will a man give to see. Across the room, the window, through the window, a tree. The marriage of sand and fire, this glass, spun thin to keep the weather out, but let the sunlight in. A bubble that does not burst, but hardens to be cut and ground into something beautiful. Half a lifetime of fog, and suddenly the fog clears. My wife, forgetting me, pauses and closes her eyes but still smiles. What a man will give not to see. Across the room could have been a world away to me. This marriage of ours, delicate as glass, has spun thin enough to let the outside in. A bubble has burst, the fragments hardened and ground into dust. Half a lifetime of clarity, and suddenly the fog rolls in. My wife, remembering me, looks up, and does not smile.
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