Whips Of Someday

Here again.

 The moon hanging high and proud in the sky, shimmering and beacon like, not full or massive, nothing that would cause people to stay up late to admire but I find that the parts of me that twist and fidget, churn and hope, they too are up late and in full appreciation of something so stunning and powerful to keep me company. So full of promise and a reminder that no matter what happens tomorrow, there will be another night just like this one. Maybe another seeking soul beneath it wondering and whispering wishes into a glass of wine or into puffs of one too many cigarettes. I never feel completely alone when I can step out onto my stoop, take in a deep chest full of silent, still air and see that bumpy textured mass, swollen and nearly bursting with all those secrets, wishes, hopes for more; more money, more time, more laughter, more understanding, one more chance. My chest expanding as I take it all in and feel a companionship with all those voices, secrets, dreams and hopeful souls that find solace in the parting of their lips and baring their soul to the one thing that might actually be big enough to carry them all to that one other, or fifteen other, people that are there too. Under that shared swollen moon, on a stoop, bare-footed and bared souled, glass of wine….one too many cigarettes. 

Here again…

Tired, beyond tired but unable to sleep. The voices, my own being the most head-thumping and aggressive, the customers with their, “but you used to have….back when I used to shop here years ago” and the ever present tick of coming due invoices, holes in our racks and missing “must have” items. The twisting in my tummy as I try to train my driven son in an industry that may or may not have a place for him. Discovering if he has any kind of palate, using my feeble teaching skills to mold his words and pull those, “What am I tasting?” words from his nervous and nubile, slightly overwhelmed head. Watching him work the floor, be far more charming than I ever was, or could have been at his age and trying to stuff the, “That’s My Baby!!” momma voice into that manager pocket that remains calm and cool when every fiber of my being is biting at my flesh, begging and demanding that I make some noise. Whispers into my glass of wine, hopes for his future being carried off in a smoke trail of one too many cigarettes.

Here again…

Trying to explain Greek wines, why the varieties are unlike anything most people have ever had. Describing the food, the ocean, the salty, savory nature of wines from a culture that figured this shit out, like…long ago, and trying to defend them and their salty, briny and lean bodies to a culture of people that are accustomed to richness, opulence, big thick bodies of wine that have historically had no food to attach themselves to. A culture that would buy a Hummer when they are renting an apartment, buying i-phones, you know, to have the world’s information at their hip, and believes that there is an “ap” for everything but cannot carry on a conversation without tweeting or telling all of their 600 friends on Facebook that they are like talking and stuff. A culture so “informed” that they can’t comprehend the fact that most wine shops aren’t going to have a wine from ten years ago, in the $10.00 price range, that will both go with their anniversary dinner of smoked salmon with pineapple salsa…and is a Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa, but cannot fathom that there is a world of wine outside their Google reader. Big smoke rings of hope billowing from my lips, whispers of “until” twisted into each one.  

Here again…

Tired and hoping, jammies, big moon, all those others taking in gallons of fresh air and hope under that textured half sphere tonight…or this morning, just wanted to let you know that I’m here too. Wishing, hoping, and finding some little bit of promise in tomorrow. As I settle into my cold rock that sits beside the stream that trickles through this very full but oh so quiet shared dwelling of “But you used to have” or “#chick@wineshop=don’t get it” ….this rock my own dreaming tree, the rustle of stiff branches and herb scented moisture that drips from them reminding me how tiny my stresses are. How bad could be things be when I have my son home, customers in the shop, a trickling stream and the scratching of wind lifted leaves above me?  

Biggest and deepest breath, lips soft and blowing sweet kisses of someday out onto the wind.