My cork is drying out – and shrinking. I’m losing fruit as we speak. Why, oh why, didn’t you bring me out five years ago when I was in my prime. And I’m not the only one – there’s a 1936 Est! Est!! Est!!! in here that looks like it came out of King Tut’s tomb. It’s a fiasco in here.
Look, when I was born, there was all this hoopla about the vintage. Those guys yelped “vintage of the decade, if not the century!” kind of stuff. Where are they now? Some of those guys are dead, some of them put out to pasture. The young somms are salivating to open a bottle like me, they think older, in wine, is better. Funny, they don’t think that about their own species. They think youth is the epitome of grace, intelligence and power. Well, I want to tell them that wine is like that too. I’m not mature and ready to rink – I’m old and tired. Past my prime. Meanwhile I sit in this prison, freezing my ass off in this dark God-forsaken tomb.
I have faint memories of a gentle slope, somewhere in
northern Italy, I think I’ve heard my prison guard use the word Langhe. I know
I must be thick skinned to withstand the torment I have been going through for
most of my vinous life. I remember sunshine and cool rain, fog and mist. I
remember the lowing of a cow, the jangle of a bell, the voice of a young girl
singing in the vineyards, the buzz of a scooter, the clamor of a tractor – good
times!
Now, I wait on the death row of an existence, for someone to come and either liberate me or put me out of my misery. I fear I’ve passed my “use by” date years ago. Is that what getting old is?
Meanwhile I’m losing patience in this tunnel of interminable anticipation. I want out of here! Help me!!!
