Scent of A Sipper

This past week has been littered with bodies. It’s like the earth is regurgitating, and people are just falling into the next life. Did you hear about the Jamaican family—mother, father, baby and grandmother who were fatally injured in a car recent car accident? So sad. To these stories, my father often replies, “What is man?” The bible likens man’s life to that of a blade of grass. How quickly we forget.  How quickly we become guest stars in our own lives. How quickly we become dreams deferred. And so I choose to live. No matter how difficult the artist road may be, I live for the chase, for the next meal, the next gathering of friends, the next bundle of laughter, and the aromas bursting from vineyards I’ve yet to visit. I remember when I used to lock myself in my room and just dance and dance for hours—New Edition, Cherelle, Michael Jackson, Def Leopard, and Pat Benatar blaring from my speakers. I held all the secrets of an earthly paradise right there in my Toshiba boombox. Today, I summon that girl, that sweet, dream-juicy girl to keep dancing, sipping, living.  

Château Dreaming

Breath is a loan. Just like that, the universe’s breath can change. Ask the Miamians who frantically search closets for warm coats as winter’s breath burrows itself underneath hot shorts, new implants and men who roam the boulevard with signs that read: Hungry. Broke. Cold. But, this balanced imbalance works somehow. I remember when I first set eyes on Château Margaux. I had less than $50 in my pocket and was recovering from a peculiar night in a neighboring Bordeaux chateau where I was told ghosts lurked in the vineyards. It was so grand, so old, and yet so new. I was also told that slaves once lived in Bordeaux and I imagined them stealing away to glory in a bottle of Château Guiraud. To think otherwise would be too painful. But here I was sipping the Grand Crus de Bordeaux. I had spent five whole days in the same outfit as L’Avion lost my luggage, but I didn’t care. I knew how to hand wash my clothes like my mother once did in her small, Jamaican village. I was just happy to be there at the center of a dream I’m not sure I really dreamed—this broke, black girl who loves wine—the history, the agriculture, the haunted cellars and vineyards, and the untold stories. I was present in every breath. Please be present in yours.