Wine

Could I know myself as my soul was plucked from the vine, mashed into a slurry, shut away behind an inch of wood?

I couldn’t wait, of course—impatience is a central character flaw of mine. Constantly, I received syrup, a two-dimensional sweetness without depth or darkness. This wasn’t the answer I was looking for.

When I resolved to wait, even then I was constantly running, sampling from others’ spigots, jetsetting to try the exotic and experimental.

In idle times, it was much worse than watching a pot boil. As if I could taste each complex, contradictory note, by staring hard enough at the barrel, analyzing its every curve and bump.

Time doesn’t explain everything. Alchemy happens to every bruised bit of skin, a stem left on, a green grape lost in my barrel of red.

I couldn’t see what was being made until it was ready.