I met a young father holding a baby. I had no idea who they were. I took the baby in my arms, held him up against my shoulder, and spoke gently to him. He smiled. I don’t remember what I said, but I think it was something simple and silly, but true.
It’s been quite some time since I’ve held a baby — not a thought one has every day. But when you’ve held babies as many times as I have, there’s an ease that remains, almost an expectation that the skill will be called for at any moment, because there’s always the need for a hairy old uncle or grandfather in this world, a knobby nose and whiskery face, sure hands, and a familiar, instantly understood earth-and-vineyard smell.
The rows are a quarter-mile long. Each vine is a sentinel. A messenger. You are together alone. Even more so in dreams. And the dream is the entire field, seen from a hill. And the hill is someone you love. And time is the dew. And the ripe grape on her tongue could be you. Something simple and silly, but true.
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