The night before the harvest - Contest #StorieDiVino

Dedicated to those who love wine and the land that produces it

"Dad, will all this be mine one day?" my father looked at me and replied "all this is already yours."

It was the end of August, the afternoon sky, tinged with red, was giving way to the night; the white of the trulli cones shifted color from pink to orange and the moon to the east was peeking out, she too had dressed in red.

With my father, we walked barefoot among the vines laden with grapes, ready for the harvest. The fine and impalpable earth caressed our feet and enveloped them with its pleasant warmth; the daytime heat was swept away by the fresh westerly wind and the old vine stumps seemed to revel in such coolness.

We arrived at the cantina crossing the vineyard; my father opened the old gate of the trullo with the century-old key he kept around his neck like a jewel, the creaking of the opening accompanied the smell of fresh lime and bleach that came from inside. Yes! Everything was ready for the harvest.

My father's hand moved along the wall until it found the old switch, turned it, and the neon lights flooded the freshly whitewashed conical walls; the floor of ancient cream-colored chianche stones was polished to a shine, reflecting the neon light in every corner of the trullo; a shiver ran through my arms and my skin prickled – the room was very cool.

The imposing press, firmly set between the chianche, reigned over the space like a throne; to one side the destemmer, and the long channel that ran across the floor to let the sweet, fragrant freshly pressed liquid flow into the cistern below, so that it might turn from must into wine.

My father took a bottle of wine, tied by a loop around its neck from the second cistern – the one with rainwater – a niche carved into the thick wall – and three glasses; on the way out he asked me to close the cantina door after turning off the light. I climbed on a small stool to reach the switch, then pushed the heavy door while the centuries-old hinges screeched; I slipped the large key into the lock and with both hands turned it, making the door resound like loud cracks, and handed it to my father. He took it in his hand, widened the cord and placed it around my neck.

The warm outside air, like a wool blanket, calmed my cold shivers.

We walked over to the low wall facing the vineyard and there my father placed the glasses at the foot of a vine – it was thick and looked very old, with few leaves and a few clusters – he uncorked the bottle of wine made from Bianco d'Alessano and Verdeca grapes, poured it, and the pale straw-colored, clear liquid settled into the glasses. He offered me one of the glasses – it was the first time he had given me wine not diluted with water – then took his own and we toasted the harvest. He, I, and the vine; we sipped slowly and had a meal of soft wheat friselle made by mamma, cheese, and pears.

As that fresh nectar scraped away the thirst of the day and restored the body, my father picked up the glass placed at the foot of the vine and gently poured its contents onto the roots. "You see, this was the first vine to be planted, and since the first harvest your great-grandfather, then your grandfather, and now we come on the evening before the harvest and toast with the earth, because we must never forget that we are part of it."

The sky was darkening; the sun, now set, cast its last violet glimmers and the ever-redder moon adorned the world.

The evening silence was broken by the calls of the night birds, and I timidly parted my lips and without realizing it whispered: "Dad, one day I will do the same with my son."

My father looked at me with a deep and gentle gaze, hinted at a smile, and kissed me on the forehead.