(this is a follow-up from a previous post I wrote a few weeks’ ago…)
My last glass of Italian wine shall be taken beside a beach. The sea will be wide and blue, waves flowing in and out gently.
The waves are listening.
The sand on which I sit will be fine - made pink from tiny crystallized shells that in their death, left a beautiful visual legacy.
Rocking chairs are not allowed on the beach. But I am defiant. I rock in my chair, naked, the sand giving way, welcoming the curved tattoos the chair makes. When the moon seduces the waves to sway to shore with more vigour, the waves will taste the curved imprint left hours ago.
My wine glass shall be made out of rainbow thread, dashed hopes and recycled dreams.
A sea lion shall waddle onto shore and pop a purple oyster into my glass.
I’ll smile.
A mermaid shall follow with a bottle of wine made from 700 Sangiovese grapes. Looking happy, but looking sad (for me), she will fill my glass, kiss me on the fingertip, then go back to sea with the sea lion. A couple madly in love.
I am alone.
But I am not lonely.
I need no-one for company.
Nature is enough. Almost.
For every sip I take, I shall look out to sea for reassurance.
For every sip I take, I shall pour one drop onto the pink sand.
Until there are no sips left to be had.
I shall place my finger in the glass and lick the remnants of Italy.
The glass belongs to the sea now.
The glass belongs to the sea.
When the moon seduces the waves to sway to shore with more vigour, the waves will taste the curved imprint left hours ago.
(img by: jurvetson)