Entry #61

Sunday Wine
by Carla Wert


Evening rays of sun find the crystal wine goblet, creating a palette of dancing pinks, reds, and scarlet on pale gold walls. Emile Chenard has poured himself and his late wife, Rose, a glass of Sunday wine from Chateau Ausone. The earthy essence of berries evokes memories. It is his ritual, pouring them each a full goblet, and then slowly sipping his wine and memories. For Rose, a goblet untouched.

Emile slowly moves upstairs, his mind alive with a young Rose, laughing as they bicycle off to Collioure beaches on the Sea of Lion. At a small alley café with only two tables they order wine and cheese; losing themselves in one another. Ah, Rose in a pale sundress, the breeze blowing against her, the waves creeping at her feet. The day ends as a smile.

Rembrandt, the white Persian cat, jumps onto one of the chairs and then up to the table. Sniffing the goblet of wine, he curls up in a position of guardianship.

The sun again rises above the sea. Emile returns downstairs, finding Rose’s goblet empty. He smiles. The words In Vito Veritas, ‘in wine there is truth’ come to mind. He gently picks up the empty tulip shaped goblet and takes it to the kitchen. As he passes the chair where Rembrandt is sprawled on his back, feet in the air, he gently pats the white head and is rewarded with a gentle purr—followed by a boisterous hiccup.