Wine's Wispers

A Story by AnneElizabeth

Today is one of those days. One of those days where your mother talks about your father. It is in the same manner it always is; you’ve just finished dinner and the table is clear and the sink full. She sits with a glass of wine in front of her--a Merlot--the deepest shade of red and the bitterest of grapes. It is a day where you don’t want to listen to her; a day when your phone is ringing besides you and you think you have better things to do. Sometimes, on days like these, she will start talking after she finishes a few glasses. Sometimes, it is before the wine even touches her lips. You knew it would be one of these days right when she sits at the table with her glass goblet, her back towards you, facing the window.

“Your father hated those bushes,” she says, “I should just remove them.”

“Uh huh,” you say, not really listening. You read the text that just popped up on your phone--be over in a half hour-- and start to leave the room.

“Son. Stay,” she says, turning around.

      “But I--”
     “Just stay for a little while.”
     You nod and sit back down, putting your phone of silent and into your pocket, you rest your elbows on the table.
     “When I met your father, I mean when I really met your father, I was working at the ice cream shop at the mall…”
     She always starts the story the same. The same love story about how her then boyfriend was your father’s then best friend. About how they sat near each other for years at lunch�"never talking�" till the day at the mall. She always trails off at the same parts and takes a sip of her wine. When she is done with her first glass�"and the story�" she turns to you.
     “Would you like a glass of wine?"
     “You know I don’t drink red.”
     She nods her head and gets up to pour another glass.
     “Your father was the same way.”
“I know,” you say. You get up from the table-- ready to leave.
     “Many things you do are just like your father.”

You stop. You stop and take a bottle of water from the fridge instead of leaving the room and sit back down.

“How?”

“The thickness of your hair, the color of your eyes, your height.”

You watch your mother-- her ring finger trailing the edges of the wine glass.

“The patients in your composure when you are sitting in traffic. The way your eyes light up when you see a new car or hear a new song. The way you attack your goals--full forced and without really thinking things though. Oh, and the way you have with Copper--the gentleness--mimics your father exactly.”

“We had Copper when my father was alive?”

“Yes. Copper was pretty much your father’s dog. Don’t you remember going to the pet store to pick him up?”

You shake your head, “I was only three.”

Your mother laughs. A crisp laugh that you are not used to really hearing--forced but real--a sound that you remember more from your childhood than you do from the past twelve years.

      “Your father was the one that picked him out. We weren’t really looking, unsure if we were ready for a dog or if a puppy would be the best thing to have around the house with you being so young. It was his idea to go--said we were just going to look-- but right when we got there he walked over to Copper’s cage--he picked him up--as if he already knew that Copper was the dog he wanted. He carried him around the rest of the time we were looking--didn’t set him down once--and then proceeded to buy him without really asking for my opinion.”
      “I never knew that,” you say.
     “There are a lot of things you don’t know about your father. Things that I wish he was hear to tell you instead of me.”
     “Me too.”
     Your mother takes another sip of her wine--signs-- and gets up from the table. She starts to clean the dishes that are in the sink.
     “Don’t stay out too late,” she says.
     You take your phone out from your pocket--look at the missed calls and unanswered text messages--and put it back.
     “There’s no place I need to be,” you say. “Tell me more about my father.”