Grandpere's Vintage

The musty smell of age-old wood drifts to me
as I walk amidst the barrels of Grandpere’s cellar.
The floorboards creak above and the soft, morning light trickles through.

Grandpere lights a candle, illuminating the rows of barrels
stacked in the icy, dark cellar.
His gentle voice pours out puffs of smoke into the chill.

The best wine,
      he (whispers) 
            is put into the cellar and forgotten.
 
Slowly he leads me further in, his hand rough and vast over mine.
Calloused and broken from years of grape-picking in the vineyards.

Soft sounds distill from Grandpere’s gray, bearded mouth as
he reads the names carved into each aged, wooden cask,
Names I can never pronounce quite right:
Merlot… Pinot Noir…

His whisper carries across the chill, echoes off the stones,
His deep, barrel laugh ameliorates the cellar air: low, free, flowing with unending mirth.
His eyes reflect the dancing flame, deep and full. 

Next week the sky will be steely, threatening as tall men in black coats
take him away; his aged wooden casket bearing his name along the base.
They will lay him in the earth and heap the rich, dark, vineyard soil atop him.
As the prayer is whispered in Latin by the priest,
the bold, steady tones will reminisce Grandpere’s as he worked…
Cabernet… Sauvignon…

After the funeral I will descend one last time in the dimness of Grandpere’s cellar.
I will walk slowly, quietly, as if trying not to disturb the air.
And in the shadows, remember him…

His whisper carries across the chill, echoes off the stones,
His deep, barrel laugh ameliorates the cellar air: low, free, flowing with unending mirth.
His eyes reflect in my mind, deep and full

like glasses of dark wine.