trepidation. few words say too much.

I uncork the 2002 Kenwood Cabernet; pour it into the only glass on my small table. It sits while I light the remaining candles in my tent. I sit, looking at the picture on the bottle – a white silk screened Wolfs’ head, looking back at me with hungry eyes.

I take the first sip in reverence, then breathe in through the profound liquid letting all of its’ flavor and complexity flow over my tongue, into my lungs, into my memory.

There is a reverence for this particular bottle, though the vintage has changed, and

I remember cooking together in the smallest of kitchens
the aroma of the food filling the apartment
the laughter
the certainty of life and
watching her Wolf and My Bean play together
as they argued for the closest space by the open kitchen door, waiting
and I remember eating glorious food,
the sauce from the mussels practically dripping down our arms as we dipped the bread
or
the looks we gave each other when the last scampi was on the plate,
both wanting it, but
both wanting the other to have it more.
There will be more.
And we drank the wine,
having everything we needed in our lives

to be happy.

I adore swimming in the past – remembering the smiles and laughter, looking back on my mistakes with a grimace and then letting it ease, knowing it is not who I am now, feeling a strange sense of sorrow and peace for all of my friends who I may never see again, but taking those lessons and that laughter with me, keeping it inside to call on.

Things are as they are supposed to be, and I couldn’t be anyone else than who I constantly become, running as fast as I can to keep the kite afloat, securing it when there is enough breeze inside to hold it aloft.

Then, when it begins to dance back and forth in its searching fall, I again take the string and move on, letting the wind carry us both into the air…

I think. There are only three people who I have encountered in my life who I would enjoy sharing this bottle with. Who know silence, with which words aren’t necessary.

Not admitting it, one is close. Not admitting it, I loathe her and she plagues my mind. Not admitting it, I want to spit in her face and hold her as tight as I can so I can say Good Bye. Silence only makes me seethe…

(I wonder how long until I erase this from my entry – but at the same time…

There are so many worthless words. Most words are. We talk incessantly to ignore the void and fear inside ourselves, and we plague the ones who prefer the soul to the wind it floats on.

Bah. More words, and probably more coming – hell, it’s still early, and I have five more bottles of extraordinary wines at my call.

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