In autumn we take buckets of damsons from the hillside to home. Uncle Finis says it is our window for wine and that removing stones from the damson’s bellies will make them less bitter. We mash them, bleed out their juices. Uncle Finis says creation is meditation as our hands turn violet; we are quiet. We are quiet for a year waiting for the bottles to mature. Maybe, if we wait one we can wait two or three and taste age. Uncle Finis says he has one saved, aged thirty years, from when his father taught him about tart skins.
Sue Clayton
5/9/2020 04:31:51 am
A mature glass of red wine; just as smooth as this sweet tale.
Mary Wallace
5/9/2020 05:30:35 pm
Nice little glimpse into life. I hope they didn't wait too long to taste age. Comments are closed.
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"Classic"
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