Muscadine Wine - by Sheila White

            She felt the sun drop its autumn warmth from around her shoulders as she walked under the bridge.  Her brown eyes squinted as they adjusted to the dim light.  Walking carefully, stepping over rocks and empty cans, she found him lying in a bundle on a dirty, worn sleeping bag.  The noisy sounds from vehicles passing overhead silenced his breathing.  Thinking him dead, she held her breath.  In a short, quiet lull, she heard a snore.  She lowered her backpack from around her neck and a heavy sigh drooped  her shoulders.  Sitting down next to the filthy man, she studied him as he slept. The small amount of silver hair on his head and face was matted.  The stench from his soiled body and tattered clothing was nauseating.  Where had the happy, younger man gone?  Everyone remembered him before he forgot.  He’d been a vibrant man, a stranger to no one, with a smile that warmed the coldest hearts.  He’d had a lifelong weakness for football, golf, and younger women but none of that mattered anymore.  He’d forgotten. The sickness gnawed at his brain, always making him forget, always he wanted to remember.  The vultures were just outside, already fighting over the best morsels.  He saw them in his dream flying circles just above his head.  He wondered how they knew he was dying.  He wondered why they were already coming to feast when he wasn’t dead yet.  He couldn’t remember.  But he knew the vultures knew somehow.  But he didn’t move.  He couldn’t remember if  he should or shouldn’t move because of the vultures.  But he couldn’t remember why.  So he lay still.  He hadn’t moved or spoken in weeks but, as she reached over to touch the thin vein slowly pulsating in his dirty hand, his eyes flashed open and he said, “Would you shut the window please? I feel a cold breeze.”   She answered, “Oh, I’m sorry.  Yes, let me get the window.  Here, I brought you something.”    After pulling a two liter bottle filled with muscadine wine from her backpack, she unscrewed the lid and handed the bottle to him.  She remembered it was his favorite. He sat up slowly and reached with a trembling hand.  He couldn’t remember who she was.  Her voice was familiar, but in his head the who was nowhere to be found. He remembered he was thirsty, so he put the container to his dry, cracked lips and swallowed several times.  Then he smiled.  He welcomed the familiar liquid as it warmed him going down.  He remembered the sun on his face and the wind in his hair.  Each sip to his parched lips opened a forgotten door.  The delicate grapes from the sun- kissed muscadine wine pressed their memories into him. He remembered for a moment.  He smiled again.  His eyes seemed to sparkle, if only for a moment.  He clutched the bottle as she walked away and closed his eyes with a muscadine memory plucked from the vine.

                                                                                        Author:    Sheila White