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34 Binoculars. Uncomfortable and intrusive things. I didn’t buy them in a fit of bird-watching zeal, nor were they given to me brand new. They aren’t very good binoculars. In their day they might have been fine for a child. They’re compact, fit for a narrow face and eye span. Too small for my husband’s broad face, they adjust perfectly to me. As I ease them from their cracked case of imitation leather, the cool hardness in my hands is like a thing lifted from the shelf in a dank basement, chilled jars of pickles or plums or pears—no, more like an ancient, hard-shell Samsonite suitcase brought up from the bowels of the house and into the light.14 A long black strap attaches to the squat case for portage in the fields. The Velcro patch that holds the top flap down is remarkably fresh and makes a loud scratchy sound when I pull it open. The binoculars were manufactured by Jason, Empire Model 219, the name emblazoned on the two eyepiece caps remaining of the original four. I keep the binoculars in their protective case on a shelf with my cookbooks in the family room. No matter what time of day I reach for them, what time of year, they’re cold to the touch and unforgiving , my binoculars. 14 See Marcia Aldrich, “The Mother Bed,” Gettysburg Review 20, no. 4 (2007): 509–18. ...

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