Half a century. The birthday package from my brother: a bottle as old as I. Through the same times I've been; have the years treated it better or worse than they have me? Awed by the power of contingency that brought this bottle from Oporto and me from New York to this spot in Oregon, I put it aside, afraid to uncork it. Perhaps, like Dorian Grey's portrait, it will continue to age while I won't. Should I store it away safely? I wait several months, and finally my curiosity overcomes the vague dread. It is exquisite. I can only hope that I have mellowed as well.
savoring the last
of the port