The Day Before December

On this day, I walked among gold and orange trees, and knew that I would soon miss the Fall. In the evening I drank a Cotes du Rhone from Avignon, that Provencial town of my early twenties. It was a Kermit Lynch selection I happened upon while browsing the shelves of a small wine shop near the park. The wine was captivating and elegant with musty earth, and also slightly wild, making me wrought with nostalgia.

Mr. Lynch probably understands that he bridges a vast ocean between Southwestern France and the palates of American French wine lovers. I'm certain he is well aware that he induces dreams of rusticity along cobblestone streets; olive trees and horses grazing in rough terrain. He must know, since it is impossible not to be awash in all of these visions when you open a bottle of a Kermit Lynch wine. He is the bridge that makes it possible to cross the Atlantic on a ship of dreams, and taste the essence of a certain place.

But he may never know that he is also the bridge between me and a former version of myself. A self that I can nearly see when I taste a certain Rhone wine. But like a dream, this vision of me is always out of reach, as though my eyes are half closed against a bright sun that obscures the trees and makes a haze of color from yellow leaves. I long to hold onto this glimpse into my past; embrace it and linger for a while. I want to take the Mediterranean and the apartment with the heavy wooden door and the blue coat I wore and bottle them, too, before they slip away. In the present, it is the last day of November. Time is persistent, so I must be content with my memories. Just a taste of then, until the bottle is empty. It will have to be enough.