|Photo: European Space Agency|
We were all guests of Enrico Scavino and his family. Writers, sommeliers, merchants, neighbors, scientists, all of us in our own way trying to save our worlds from darkness. Inside the lights dimmed and the presentation began.
|Photo: Scavino family archives|
I remember observing my father as he got older and lost some of his fire. He mellowed, and along with it the sentimentality of his perspective on life swelled. When I was 30, I thought it a sign of weakening. As with so many things I thought when young, I was wrong. It was like the grapes on the vine, ripening and readying for the wine to come.
All this seems easy to say now. But the hard truth of it is that many leaves have been pruned from the vines; more than one green harvest has left fruit on the ground.
And that is the real lord in the room. Time. Which makes the wine mellow. Which makes men cry. And which makes all these moments dearer and dearer as the sun reaches closer to the horizon, in search of other lands, other vines and other wines to come.
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