Serendipity too

Dear Kind Wine-Caddy,

You were unexpected, a voice from over my shoulder. “That glass of wine needs filling.” I laughed, and heartily agreed, then I saw you. Something happened, just for a moment, a smile emanating from your eyes, sad eyes maybe, but we laughed. You seemed kind, disarmingly so, and a bit of nothing-to-lose lonely; Maybe I was projecting.

“What was that?” my friend asked.

“I don’t know, he’s getting me Viognier.”

“Why didn’t you get any for me?”

Sorry, I shrugged, “I didn’t know.”

Later, I felt the weight of your eyes upon me, diverting my own. I noticed you were handsome. Then you were gone, until a few days later. In a glossy, socialite-scene magazine, I saw those eyes again, looking tired. Maybe I could take your hand, and listen to your story. You could touch me, like you do so many, but differently. I wish I could bump into you again, but not knowing who you are, not feeling the nervousness of talking to someone famous. I’d be charming, and real like you.

You were gone for a long time. He must not know much about wine, I thought, he seemed to be confused when I answered that I’d like Viognier. People who don’t know wine, don’t know Viognier.

Maybe he’s not coming back, my friend suggested.

Oh? Well, I thought, but really I was disappointed. Until you returned, breathless, with the wrong, perfect wine. A wine that you took the time to search out and find, for a perfect stranger. Or maybe you were just occupied, and cursing that you opened your mouth at the wrong time;  Just too polite, how could I not offer to get her wine, you thought.

No, I prefer the first explanation. Then I see your interview with Leno. It was weird, right? He seemed shallow – asking about your Mountain-state, yes, but were you sad? You didn’t really answer, it didn’t deserve an answer, anyway, I would’ve done the same. Plain-spoken people, said with intelligence, reminded me of someone else, myself maybe, or from further back.

You must not know much about wine, ha, I thought, wouldn’t that have been a funny, charming joke, to bring up later? After we were already noodling, and palling around like college-lovers.

If humans have a second life, do you think they turn into star-dust, go back up into space and be like a star? “Don’t you think that is a good question, Mom?” My son asks. He’s talking about atomic energy now, like Einstein, like my dad, you seem smart in an honest way. And isn’t it funny that Adam and Atom sound the same, like the basis of all life, from the beginning there was Adam, and I’ll be your Eve. Because really you make comedies, you’re trying to be happy, just breathe.

The core of our heart is an atom, Mom. Like it is the source of our energy. It’s like our heart is the engine that splits the atoms and makes the energy. God, I think how true that is; I think that is what I recognize in you.



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