She is Terroir

"This is a Chilean Merlot from Maipo Valley. What makes this merlot remarkable is that its from a vineyard that uses no artificial irrigation. All the water that the vines thrive on are rooted deep into the soil. What that does is it makes the vine work harder to get to its water source making the wine it produces more terroir driven than your typical merlot."

"You want to stress your vines. Extreme differences in temperature between the day and night add alot of character to the grapes. Its what gives the wine its fruit forward flavor. Older vines are typically heartier from extensive root networking and these roots add distinct earthy qualities to the wine. Its almost all about the climate and soil. What the winemaker does after the harvest is almost an afterthought."

Chace rambles on about the glass of merlot I have set before me. I look into the glass at pool of violet swirling around inside as I contemplate everything he's saying. I see nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe because I'm not really focused today. I feel lost in my thoughts and emotions and they're someplace far away. I nose the glass and take in its aroma. Dark. Heavy. I smell sadness. I smell roses wilting and dark cherries. I smell the autumn moving reluctantly into winter. I smell sunkissed leaves crumbling in the cold wind. I smell her. I open my eyes and look into the stemware and gaze at my own reflection. From above the wine looks like a black abyss. Like the eyes of her. Clouded. Guarded. Untrusting and unforgiving. Emotionless. Shrouded in mystery; not out of malice I feel but out of something else, but what? I put the glass to my mouth and feel the wine meet my lips. It feels surprisingly warm like a kiss from a lover. Not one that is timid nor one that is familiar, but one that is forlorn. One that is reserved. This wine has secrets. I take her in, I let her flood my senses. Eyes closed and my attention focused only on her I think of what Chace says about the conditions this wine was raised in. I think of all of its hardships. The days of burning hell and the cold desolated nights that thickened its skin and left her gaunt, leaving a hint of bitterness, burried beneath her rich chocolate kiss. I think of how deep its roots had to dig within itself to find its own nourishment. No water to quench her thirst, just deep dark earth that she had to claw at to survive. I think of how such a sad vine has produced such a sad wine. But it is beautiful. I can taste its pain. I can taste her pain. I understand that I don't fully understand this wave of dark crimson that now sits within me trying to tell me a tale without words. All I can do is feel. I feel a rush of mixed flavors and emotions. I taste the strawberries full of the promise of spring, cherries ripe with the passion of summer, followed by plums dark with the secrets of fall. I can taste the mud of rejection, the forest of uncertainty, and the river of hope. A sea of stories that chronicles the life of her in a mere mouthful. I try to concentrate and let the wine's story unfold but she's drifting almost as if she wants to keep some secrets intact. I open my eyes changed. I can feel what remains of the wine lingering in my mouth like her kiss from the night before. I take the bottle and pour a fresh glass. I missed something. Something I can't describe but know is worth discovering. I put the glass to my lips anew and await the warmth of her kiss, knowing I may never know or understand but I am content to search glass after glass, bottle after bottle for that dark ink of unknown that I find warm and beautiful.