Today’s Words on Three Word Wednesday: Glass ~ Question ~ Token
Shelly lifted her glass, placing it directly into the beam of sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window. Pure gold, she thought, admiring the clarity of wine pooled at the goblet’s base. A practiced flick of her wrist sent the liquid into a gentle pirouette, releasing the grassy scent she especially favored. Dipping her nose just slightly over the rim, she inhaled, letting the complex aroma permeate her nasal membranes.
Only the closest of Shelly’s friends dared ask her out for a drink, knowing full well there was no such thing as just a token glass of wine where she was concerned. Wine was serious business for her – after all, it was her livelihood. Running the vineyard her family had owned and operate for the past 75 years was a legacy she took very seriously.
Wine was more than just a business – it was a labor of love, wrapped in her warmest memories of times spent with her mother and grandfather, traipsing through the arbors in early fall, asking question after question. Her mother would sometimes become annoyed with her, impatient with the constant interruptions of a small girl who wanted to know why certain vines bloomed in the fall, and what the bad worms looked like, and how could they make white wine out of green grapes.
But her grandfather was always the soul of patience, kneeling beside her on the grassy hills, cupping his hands full of tiny grapes, showing her which ones were progressing as they should, teaching her how to determine which were not getting enough sun, or were becoming too moist.
For nearly 20 years, the vineyard had been the focus her days and nights, the recipient of all her affection and dedication. “So here I am,” Shelly thought, “just me and the vines.” She turned from the window and set the glass down on the black granite counter-top. “How insane of me to think that gestating the perfect bottle of pinot noir would be as satisfying as having a family.”
She felt the soft brush of Samson’s fur, his lithe feline body winding round her ankles. Reaching down to run her palm over his smooth back, she felt his spine arch appreciatively under her touch.
“I know, I know,” she reassured him. “I appreciate how much you love me.” The cat protested slightly as she scooped him up under her arm, retrieving her wine glass and stepping out onto the deck overlooking the sloping green hills of the vineyard. “But no matter how smart you are,” she continued affectionately, “you can’t run the vineyard when I’m gone.”
For that was the big question on Shelly’s mind these days, the question of legacy, of who would inherit her love for the vines, of who would continue creating the wines of which her grandfather had been so proud.
Dark eyes roaming the vista spread before her, she felt a familiar sensation of peace flooding her body. Though Shelly usually eschewed the California “feel good” philosophy, she had to admit this land had healing powers. The pride of ownership that flowed through her veins was as intoxicating as the finest vintage in her cellars.
“And that will have to be enough for me,” she thought, taking a delicate sip of the Chardonnay she had poured a few minutes ago, before her thoughts had turned melancholy. The rich buttery flavor set her taste buds alight, and as she gently chewed the rich liquid it released its aftertaste onto her tongue. Sighing deeply with pleasure, she turned her back to the sunset, and went inside to refill her glass.
“That – and this,” she said, lifting her glass into the waning beam of sunlight.