How to Say I Do

by Tal Bauer

A sip— Rich, velvety ripeness. Complexity. A story unfolding in a taste of love and loss and heartbreak. I was sobbing before I swallowed. The wine tasted like time, like ten years and my whole childhood distilled into a drop, like my father was standing in front of me again and holding out a grape fresh off the vine. Then we were walking the rows, and I was tracing the undersides of the leaves as he was describing his dream. In my mind, we swung around and headed for home, and he threw his arm around my neck and pointed to the ranch, and I could see everything. All of it, past and present and future. All of the blocks, even the ones that didn’t exist when he was alive, and the barn whitewashed for Noël. I saw Liam and Savannah on the back porch with Jason and two other mischievous boys. And Noël, God, Noël was there, too, waving to me and holding out his hand. Time looped and folded, past and present. All of my father’s love and all the ways he worked this life, nurturing fruit and family in equal portions, and I heard my father’s voice again. I’m so proud of you, Wyatt.