Never written a poem, but felt like I had to.

The bottle dropped, and so did my heart.

My father didn't know the feelings that would be felt by that wine.

He put his love into making it

Happier than I'd seen him, maybe ever.

Once he passed, the bottles took on another meaning.

One of reminiscence, fond and difficult memories, and connection.

Maybe I should have drank it sooner.

There were times that would have worked, but they didn't feel right.

But now it's gone.

The smell was one of a fantastic red, but he only used cranberries.

At least I have that to remember it.

Sweet, but dry. Complex. No oak. Citrus.

Cranberries, of course.

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