Driving down the road today, I heard an ad for a winery on the radio. It mentioned the winemaker by name - a friend and classmate from college. The last time I saw her in person, she was wearing dusty boots and I was wearing a lab coat. We discussed the harvest, the color of the fruit, the brix. I just don't seem to care about these things anymore.
Was it love...or merely a long-lasting infatuation?
Wine was the imp that gave us the courage to explore candlelight opportunities. To create poetry, art, dance, romance. It made us beautiful, witty, sensitive to color and light and music. It was complex and layered and full of life. I was fascinated and wanted to spend my life learning how to craft it.
My relationship with alcohol has changed as I've gone through my life, and I no longer see it as a purely good force for human happiness - it's faults acceptable and endurable. Like any imp, it does not decide when you've had enough mischief, yet continues to play its tricks with complete disregard. Have I grown tired of its twisted humor, like an overindulged darling? Or is there simply no room in my current life for its gifts? Candlelight opportunities must remain unexplored, mysteries unrevealed. Night and darkness don't have the warmth they did. Afternoons don't have the lolling daydream quality of those yesterdays. I don't always notice the subtle layers of flavor, color, scent.
Is it truly that I don't care? Am I just in a hurry, forgetting to feel the bright sparkle or dark velvet through my nose and across my tongue? Do I no longer want the challenge of blending the caprice of nature, the regimen of science and the craft of man?
Or have I simply forgotten the magic in the dust and quiet shade of rusting leaves?