Wine is more than just a beverage for me. Drinking wine, I can often derive introspective thoughts and emotions about myself. And most of the time, wine brings joy. But on a particular occasion not too long ago, some other emotion overtook me.
One evening, I was opening a bottle of Vintage Port from the legendary 1970 vintage. I was pretty excited, having read and heard so much about the universally acclaimed vintage – many critics consider it perhaps the best vintage for the past 50 years. But, like all things that come with high expectations, I ended up being disappointed, with the wine no longer possessing any fruit characteristic.
Such an experience usually doesn’t dampen my mood much, because wine is perishable after all. But I was awash in sadness this time with the realization that, no matter how great of a bottle, a wine’s best day eventually passes. And in extension, so do ours.
As someone who still remembers being young, there was a time when I seemingly had unlimited amounts of time, and would go about my weeks and months not focusing on what was most important. Sometimes, important events such as my mother’s birthday or gatherings with the extended family, would be forgotten. But it was ok, because there was always next week, next month, next year. I always had more time.
But now, I realize I may not have as much time to waste as I did before. Schedules get busier and busier, friends move farther and farther away, and most depressingly, there are more and more funerals to attend.
Wine, in a woeful way, reflects that sort of experience.
