Nebbiolo Reserve

I like the sound of lots of computers typing all at once. It’s like dry rain, or like the sound of my pretty beads when they spill on the floor. I always liked that sound, as much as I hated the mess. When I was a child, I spilled a large bag of glow-in-the-dark beads on the basement floor, but instead of picking them up I turned out the lights and walked amongst the stars. I lay down, made star-angels. I got up and I spun around and around and around looking at the floor, pretending I was flying through space at light-speed. The beads hurt my bare feet, but they were so beautiful I didn’t mind.

Sometimes I don’t mind the beautiful things that hurt my bare soul, either.
Even now, with these grown-up things: grown-up joy, grown-up hurt. They leave me a little breathless. I’m twenty-three and wide-eyed still, as cynical as I feel sometimes.

Rarely do I feel qualified for this “life” thing I’m supposed to be doing. Just occasionally, sometimes when I’m driving or when I sit outside for a very long, long time. Then I feel grounded, rooted to the earth and level with it. Things seem more real—contrasts less sharp, colors less saturated. The world stripped down bare for me to see its pores. Then, when I am able to get a foothold in the rough surface of reality, I feel like maybe I can get something done. At least something basic, like get myself to the doctor or balance my checkbook. Then I feel like I can do it, maybe; like I can be out in the world on my own and maybe be ok. Because I do the things I do and at least I do them, though I may not do much else. Because at least I try. Most of the time.

In the passenger seat I dreamed it was raining in my room. I laughed and spun around, my face turned up to the fat, heavy drops. I spun and spun, soaking wet, but woke warm and dry on the Virginia border at night. Below the high mountain road spread some sort of plant or series of factories. Gray structures in geometric shapes, cylinder towers rising from clusters of rectangular buildings, all different levels. On every edge, every corner, a light glinted. It was like Atlantis raised, suspended in a sea of darkness, sparkling with little points of yellow light. Smoke rose from towers, causing the light to swim in places. I’ve never seen something so industrial look so otherworldly. I watched it pass beneath me as we crossed the bridge, all sprawling stone and steel and light. Like I had ascended above the stars.

I searched for inspiration there, for a poem perhaps, or a song. But then I realized that, were I to write an ode to you, it would sound more like a taste of fine red wine. A flavor of elegant complexity, and in your enthralling depths I find violets and forest loam, dark berry and tobacco notes. Rich and firm structure; a solid, seamless finish. Delicious fruit and leather in your kiss, chocolate undertones; strawberry and spice in your fingertips. You are full and rich and challenging, fully appreciated only by the most discerning of palates. Yet I am blessed to enjoy your fragrant bouquet and refined flavor. I hold you up to the light to admire the gradient and depth of your color as, bit by bit, I observe all you have to offer.

And often after, I feel bold.

I will be more than just ok.