Fingers wrapped around the delicate crystal, she sipped and swirled.  Eying the vino’s beauty and legginess, clinging to the sides of the glass.

Bringing the rim to full lips, she let the sensations penetrate deep.   Breathing the aroma’s in through her mouth and nose simultaneously.

Eyes closed, her senses were awash with the subtleties of oak and tannins.

Every sip, gifting it’s warmth.
Flooding her with memories.
Bringing her closer inside, to herself.

She began to compare her life to the bottled vintage:

Planted with some amount of care.  Doted on, and nurtured.  Tended during growth.  Shown love, light, and necessity.  Encouraged.  Grown lush, and beautiful.  Sweet by nature, and ripe for enjoyment.

Then harvested.

Roughed about.
Stomped.
Casked and fermented.

No longer sweet, but sour and bitter to the taste.

Bottled up, and shipped out into the world.
Disregarded by all those that guided with grace, in the beginning.
Put on a shelf in someone’s cellar to collect dust, and forgotten.

And rightfully so.

Since every bottle held truth… and she had none.

Swirl and sip.

Alone.