Still life with bottle. Red wine black with ferment.
Grace said in silence. Then the day’s news: an unexpected diagnosis, visitors
from another lifetime, a thunderbolt phone call. We examine our meals, tuck in.
Wine animates the ordinary, flows understandably. Conversation is everyone’s
turn, untying a few strands of our complicated city. November is cherries, too
many for the bowl. And anyway (second glass) who invented the still life?
Google it. One thing’s for sure, the bottle is vital. Thick at base, tapering
above halfway. Stories flow from its lip. Sound of our voices flesh out meaning,
alive to purpose.
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