It’s Saturday night. Jonathan’s on call, but made it home with some daylight left to saw logs and split wood. He came in after dark, jacket redolent of the outdoors - chain saw exhaust, split oak, warm body heat – and draped his jacket over a chair. I made a big pot of cabbage and veggie soup and opened a bottle of wine.
Last summer, I called the Napa Valley vineyard that my dad bought all his wine from. I missed him. I missed sipping his lovely wines in his condo, entertained by his cheery welcome, his ridiculous puns, his philosophizing, his crackling wood fire and Mantovani music. So I bought a case of his favorite wines, and they told me, “You can customize your labels when you buy a case.” I put his initials on every bottle, so I think of him every time I open a bottle of wine and sit by the crackling fire, with my two old dogs and my sweet smelling husband.
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 88: 166 words, TOTAL = 14,797; 45,203 remaining
Robin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs.