Drink

When the first soldier came to taste Ana's wine, I asked my mother when the man would first hear of mine. "Patience, my beautiful daughter," he tells me. "Let the age of the wine, and it is rich, and be stronger than its oak tree." But the first soldier who tasted took my sister Ana, even though her wine was still young and sweet, perhaps because she liked that taste.

It was many years before a man came to taste my wine. I have many long days of thinking, studying, and being able to have someone who will drink me completely. Every day I spiced the barrel, breathed in its sweet aroma, and adjusted my father's thief's temperature to better develop my powerful toxins. It was my absolute wish.

When I was born, Mom planted my birthday bag in the most beautiful spot on our hill, lit by our red sun and shining at night in the shade of four months. In the women's garden, my fruit grew taller than the other girls, bowing toward the nearest moon at night. My first home and the seeds of my family grew and blossomed into fruitfulness, original resemblance, and trust. The large purple berries shone like dewy velvet and were Mother's spice and joy: a promise for grandchildren.

When I was a girl, I cared for my plant like a sick child, even though it was very healthy. It was a damaged baby under my green thumb. It demanded more of me than I could give up, and I shrugged off the distemper where I could not give it. So I learned to dedicate myself completely to this plant so that one day I could have a proud husband.

When I harvested my crop, I did not lose a single fruit. I cut it with my mother's silver poison and held the thorny branches in my hands so that they would not touch the ground. I twisted each fruit in its vine and rubbed its skin with my blood, which gave my fruit a metallic taste. A man can taste the dedication of the basket, even after many years.

Mother and I made my proud drink in the presence of many jealous wives and daughters whose crops were not so strong. I had more than enough fruit to fill a large box my father had built for me. We just give you a sweet little rose, paint it on someone, and leave its lustful nature alone. When the fruit is good, it does not need to be spicy. Mother said that it was the best wine she had ever seen.

It is our way of giving our girls these soft plants, a gift from mother to daughter. When he is old enough, the child learns to take care of his future in the vine of his own crop. The women's field teaches child labor, obedience to the poor. The crop gives his little fingers a sense of thorny pain and an inability to care for velvet berry punches with a cautious hand. When she starts to arouse her purple tree, picking the undertones on her Mom’s lap, she knows she’s a woman. And while he waits for months for a stranger to take to the streets and ask for a taste, he becomes one with lonely anticipation.

I didn’t know at the time what I knew to be true now: that a heady brew can scare them like a partner’s blood makes rats in the army. I waited, looking down at that long road, and all the men who were riding our way passed me. My drink became stronger, I became an acidic drug, and my brain became hot and strong. I knew, at that moment, that my wine was very strong no matter what Mother sang in her lying bed. So again, I started to worry about the world.

I grew up in my garden with a sea of delicious fruit, delicious herbs, and unusual spices. I collected pistils of small flowers until I found enough to cover the acid of my wine. I planted summer berries to make them more delicious. In the trees, I collected honey to attach to a man.

I also tasted my wine with new spices, and with its whole harvest, it became more and more powerful. I tried to remove its strong start, closing its powerful fruit with the dressing of the windows, but nothing could hide the burning acid it had. It simply grew, like me, until even my most prominent investment could change it. So I gave up.

After many months, I began to love this satellite field, my taste buds for the taste of life. Instead of the magic of love, I started planting drugs and more. I grew up with beautiful flowers and trees that seemed to come out of the moon at night. I built alchemy in my garden shed, and my picnic feasts, eaten on the very land they were born in, were much more satisfying than those coming from large fields owned by red-skinned farmers. In my fields, neglected by my father, I did more life and magic than a son.

It was then that I knew the doubts. I was angry with my wine. It grew bigger, and it strengthened me. Maybe it was for the seed, or maybe the gardener had some influence on it. When it exploded on the ground, there was no turning back.

And I thought, why should I bet my life that a soldier, a farmer, or a magician would drink my wine and get drunk on it? It seems unfair that I should raise another beautiful girl like myself, teach her how to cultivate the soil, give her a price, and then pour that amount into the wine. Isn't this field enough to show someone that I am the ruler of the world?

I waited for years, but still, no one came. They talked about me in the cities, a woman carrying a smoking cigar. A vixen with a heavy drink. My wine no longer tastes good, but it has become a myth.

In my garden, I have now planted special vegetables, which is the last part of my recipe. I have kept it secretly in the shadow of the hidden corn. We grow slowly, but we grow stronger. When I dry it, crush it, and put it in wine, it will be the backbone of my scorpion. No man can take me out of this field. I will live and die here in the flowers and in the trees, and return to the garden from which I came.

Father called to the village, as Mother had been begging, to find a man with a powerful magic spell: a man who could drink a poisonous woman and not die. He will see my foolish field and smile, for he will know in his heart that he will be ready for me with his palate, the simple girl I am.

You will be wrong.