I seldom allow myself that second glass of wine at night.
But this merlot was so good! Precariously balanced between dry and sweet, it danced across my palate and into my bloodstream, soothing and teasing, satisfying and creating new thirst.
It has almost allowed me to look at my day without judgement… without questions.
It is keeping me from feeling guilty about floors still unclean, clothes still unwashed, boxes that have remained unpacked, and calls that have not been made, as it congratulates me for the two bills I did pay… late… and the birthday greeting I sent to a friend.
It is bringing fresh tears to my eyes as I recall the recommendation I just received from the owner of the agency from which I was just let go… a glowing review of my work and a loving paean to my character. Sweet merlot, how do you enable me to enjoy those sweet words while obscuring the uncertainty in which I find myself in the aftermath?
It is numbing the sound of the television’s inanity, and my son’s observations about its idiocies, as it quiets my motherly worry about the fact that, at present, his life has as little direction as mine. It is keeping my mouth shut, so I don’t comment on this uncomfortable phenomenon, and fill him with anger at my observations.
Dear, dear merlot. I think I’ll have another glass. I think I’ll descend from complacency to bemusement. With luck I’ll proceed from serenity to jocundity. I may start singing show tunes, once again in command of notes that long ago ceased taking direction from my sober, middle-aged throat.
And with the greatest of luck, the merlot will take me to my bed, where I’ll fall asleep and stay asleep until morning, perhaps to rise with the dawn, perhaps to greet a new day when I’ll change my ways.