A Simple Glass of Merlot

Greta felt the sun on her face and the wind in her hair during the long drive. Having the top down on the old Mercedes sports convertible was heavenly, especially this time of year. There was little that could beat it on a given day. The scenery of North Yorkshire that stretched before her on the road was stunning, soothing and filling her restless soul with rolling hills and a winding highway leading her to the seashore. She’d been making this annual trip for twenty-nine years and looked forward to it every June. It was something that gave her purpose and was well worth the endeavor despite the half day it took to reach her destination. And she would continue to make it each year as long as she was able. It gave her immense comfort and kept him closer in all that she did, not just in mind and heart.

Garrison had been dead now for twenty-nine years. He had been the love of Greta’s life, and not one day went by when she did not think of or miss him. What they had shared in their brief nine years together had been more than many share in a lifetime. Together, theirs had been an amazing journey, discovering not only each other but also many of life’s wonderful secrets. It had been difficult, at best, to continue forward without him by her side, but she had pushed onward, knowing he would expect that much of her. She had never met another man who had come close to being the kind of man Garrison had been, so remarrying had never been even a remote consideration. She was happier living with the memories of what she had shared with the man to whom she had once been fortunate enough to be married. After all, she had waited nearly thirty-five years for him; why would she possibly consider or settle for something less?

Greta was seventy-two years old, with fine wrinkles about her mouth and green eyes from years filled with smiles and laughter. In general, she was a very happy and thankful person. Her thin, slender hands, used to strumming the strings of a guitar or playing the keys of a piano were now slightly knotted in appearance, showing the gradual encroachment of arthritis. Still, she was able to dig in the garden, paint a canvas, strum her best-loved piece of music on the guitar, and cook her favorite meal, so she would not complain. Grey strands interspersed with light blonde to give the effect of well-placed highlights in her long mane of hair. She usually wore it pulled back or up from her face but driving along with the top down did not allow her to do so. Instead, today if whipped about her face with a freedom that Greta felt with every mile traveled as she drew closer to her destination. Garrison had loved her long hair, and she’d not been able to find the courage to have it cut to into the appropriate older woman’s hairstyle despite her aging years. She justified her lack of such action with the ability to easily pull it back opposed to having to style it each and every day.

Greta had been thirty-four when she’d met Garrison. She had long since given up on meeting a man that would factor into her life for any length of time beyond a few enjoyable months. But then, one night at a local pub she’d met him: a fated collision of two souls. How had they not met sooner? They were so vastly similar that even they did not understand the breath and scope of those intricacies. They were both artists, usually pursuing music, which was easily their first love. Most artists live volatile lives, never finding true happiness, but for she and Garrison, it had been entirely different. What and where he started, she had completed and ended and vice versa. She was his Yin, and he, her Yang. Nine years had gone by so splendidly and yet, so very quickly. And in the skip of a heartbeat on one fine summer day in June, it had all come crashing to a screeching halt. Garrison had inexplicably and suddenly died, and Greta’s entire world had collapsed.

The doctors could offer no more of an explanation for his unexpected death than “his heart just gave out”. She could not but help think that possibly his heart could bear no greater fulfillment of love than it already had; it had drunk its fill and run its course, unable to consume any more. It gave her a measure of comfort to know that he’d encompassed all the love she’d had to give during his short life. But at the same time, it had been difficult, at best, to pick up the pieces and move on. Still, she had, and she was thankful she’d not given up twenty-nine years ago. Life was good – or at least as good as it could be despite the absence of Garrison for all this time.

Greta reached her final destination and pulled into an isolated spot atop the path overlooking the ocean’s view. She turned off the ignition and sighing, she reached her slightly weathered and wrinkled hand across to the passenger side and placed it atop a picnic basket, lovingly touching its lid. Encased therein was a bottle of Garrison’s favorite French Merlot, along with two glasses, fruit, cheese, and French bread. The basket was the same one they’d shared on their first date thirty-eight years ago. She had lovingly stored and tended to the basket to ensure it made the annual trip with her each summer. Recreating their special, pivotal first date on the anniversary of his death was a way to keep Garrison alive and always with her, thereby denying death the ultimate win.

Greta opened the car door and stood, stretching by the small car, taking advantage of the moment to survey the beautiful ocean and stretch of land. She could feel the difference a year had made, both in her bones and in her heart. Walking to the other side of the car, she picked up the basket of wine and food, as well as a small blanket and headed down to the seashore, carefully watching her step along the rugged, winding path.

Once she’d reached the sandy shore, she spread out her blanket and slowly lowered herself upon it, sitting with the picnic basket close beside her. Greta took note of the beautiful day that was nearly identical to the one shared by she and Garrison on their first date so many years before. Looking about, she felt the light breeze and watched as it softly blew the Foxgloves on the distant cliffs, making them sway as if dancing to the song created by the circling seagulls. Small waves lapped at the shoreline, leaving a trail of foam in their wake. From where she sat, she could smell the salt of the water and hear the strength of the ocean’s waves. Yes, it was a splendid day. She was happy to be here, remembering their first date and feeling Garrison in each and every fiber of her being.

Greta slowly opened the lid of the old picnic basket and pulled out the two glasses and the bottle of French Merlot. It had been Garrison’s favorite wine, thus also becoming hers. The two had shared many a bottle of it in the nine years they’d spent together, but none as special as the one on that first date at this very same location. It was a treasured memory and one she kept close, buried deep within her heart and mind, unlocking and rekindling it only when she came back to the same place each year.

She opened the bottle of Merlot and carefully filled the two glasses that rested precariously on the blanket's edge beside her. Picking one glass up, she lifted it in the air and whispered, “To you, my love,” before taking a long, deep swallow of the wine. Immediately, a warmth filled her that was due to more than simply the lovely Merlot as it traveled through her body; it was also due to the warmth of a memory that was larger than life. A love for a man who remained dearer than anything else she’d known flooded her and brought the sting of tears to her aging green eyes. She would never cease to miss him or to long for him.

Greta remained seated upon the blanket, recalling the first date she’d shared with Garrison all afternoon, remembering how much they had laughed and drunk of the Merlot. Their connection had been obvious from the very start. A bright glimmer of treasured love and laughter surfaced in her eyes, and she found herself laughing aloud at the many memories evoked by her beautiful surroundings and the wine she drank. Eventually, lulled by the serenity derived from the rich Merlot, she laid back upon the blanket and napped for a bit.

A short while later, she stirred, the mewing of seagulls awakening her. Once fully alert, she poured herself another glass of wine, choosing to also partake of the cheese and fruit the basket held along with a bit of French bread. It wouldn’t do to head back on the road with nothing but the delicious and smooth Merlot in her stomach. As she ate the food and drank the remnants of her wine, Garrison’s glass of Merlot remained untouched where it rested upon the blanket.

She watched as the sun began its daily descent. She had only a short while before she would need to begin the trip back home. Slowly and methodically, she replaced the cork in the bottle of wine and repacked the picnic basket. As she did so, she took great care to move Garrison’s untouched glass of Merlot to the side, nesting and cradling it in the sand. She gave it one last glance as she stood and shook the sand from her blanket, folding it so that she could easily return it to the car along with the picnic basket.

Heading up the rugged path and back to the car, she stopped as she reached the top to look out on the spot where she’d just sat near the shoreline. There, nestled in the sand, Garrison’s glass of Merlot remained, alone and detached from the life she would continue to lead for the next year. It was a symbol of sorts, but it helped her to feel that he remained alive, waiting for her return. Two hearts continuing to beat as one - here, and only here.

Breathing deeply of the salted Yorkshire air, she wiped at a lone tear that fell from her eye. It was hard not to be reminiscent or not to miss Garrison at such a beautiful moment. She hated to leave. It was like being home after being away for so long. There was a comfort and an ease in this isolated spot that gave her what she felt she needed to live and breathe for yet another year.

“Until next year, my love,” she whispered to the wind while staring down at the untouched glass of Merlot resting alone in the sand.

Climbing into her car, Greta began the long journey. It would be another three hundred and sixty-five days before she returned, but she had the sustenance she had craved with which to continue her life alone, and more importantly, to keep from being lonely. She was already looking forward to next year – to next June when she would once again live and breathe the memory of her most profound and truest love on the cliffs of North Yorkshire with a simple glass of Merlot.