Some wine, some strawberries and a little bit of moonlight

I drink alone, no friend with me.

I raise my cup to invite the moon.

He and my shadow and I make three.

Li Bai (701 - 761)

I already know that the wine has gone to my head and that the strawberries are not perfectly matched with my wine. It is a Gamay from Henry of Pelham, a bit rustic, a bit candied fruit, but wonderful for this moment.

There is a crescent moon across the way, over the trees. I put my feet up against the balcony, sitting back, listening to the wind run its fingers through the leaves, watching the giant trees sway back and forth.

It was a humid day today but then the sky darkened and the rain fell. Wet torrents of sky came down on my shoulder as I raced to the car.

I had another wine earlier today, a Cabernet Franc from Featherstone of Vineland. I had one glass with my lunch and listened to Chopin because on a rainy day, nothing beats his Nocturnes.

A friend came by and I poured wine for her and some more for me. She is stressed out looking for a job and I can understand, I can relate.

But now I’m here, unwinding, thinking, getting lost, sipping the wine, dropping another strawberry into my mouth.

The Spanish have a saying: Beber este vino es como hablar con Dios. “Drinking this wine is like talking with God.” Sometimes I feel that way when the wine and the moment pair well together.

The strawberries are finished. I place the bowl down beside my chair.

Watching the moon, taking another sip, I go through my day, flipping back pages of memories, falling nearly asleep. Closing my eyes, my chin drops against my right shoulder as I go back in time, thinking of a girl at winery I met in Victoria. She was blonde, beautiful, and she laughed at a few of my jokes. What happened to her?

I remember the windy days in Victoria, how the door banged at the liquor store I worked at. How many years ago now? There was a woman who lost both her husband and best friend to cancer in the same year. She drank a bottle of Jackson Triggs Chardonnay everyday. She would stand directly in front of the counter and request the bottle even though it was sitting in the cooler, just two feet to her right. Nonetheless, I’d come around to get it because maybe in some way it helped her feel cared for.

But the moon, the moon is taking me back. My colleagues and I are sitting at high tables draped in black cloth amongst barrels of wine in a winery cellar. The flames from the candles reflect along the crescent curve of our glasses. I smell the wood and the cold cement floor. We have asparagus wrapped in bacon.

The blonde girl appears again, holding a bottle of wine, the glint of candlelight running along the glass neck, along her neck. I can retrieve her but only briefly, drinking the wine she pours, a Pinot Noir from the Okanagan and quite good. Not knowing the contours of her hand, the wine running wild and silly through my veins, she comes back to me, bringing me something else to try.

We start talking. I ask her what she is doing in the wine business. She replies that she started out in graphic design. Interesting the way things go.

It is far away now. I open my eyes. I think I was drunk that night. A glass fell on the floor and the moment ended between us.

I was almost dreaming.

The moon and the wine are bringing me back. The night is just right. It is cool, lovely. And the wine is perfect. I don’t want to go back inside. Let me linger here.

I take another sip of this beautiful wine.