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Fifty Years Later Fifty years later, would he be the same as when I first met him fifty years before? Would his hair that once had been so dark and bright turn to tufts of silver, transparent under the blazing sun of July just as mine had shone – would he recall the golden strands of hair under the very same sun fifty years ago, that I so proudly wore upon my head. Would he remember that blonde braid that he used to unwind, rewind, unwind, and wind again with his smooth caressing hands. Or would he revisit the town dwelling amid the vast corn fields where we had strolled along the river bank, watching the last rays of evening sun dyeing the clouds red and violet and burning in the dimming sky. – Would he walk the bridge again? Would he walk the bridge with a stick in his hand, and feel with his slightly trembling feet the arch that we once stood upon, silently leaning against each other’s shoulders; listening to the finches that sang the falling of the night;
Maxwell Zhou
