The Bottle of Wine

Her inheritance was a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine. As she raised her glass to toast to his death, long over due, but hard non-the-less a tear ran down her cheek. He’d always been, well, a difficult person, not caring about others feelings or how they felt. His way, his way, always his way! There was no other way, and drove her nuts, growing up really was hard.

There was no depth of meaning to anything and his understand of simple straightforward things was so hard for him to comprehend. That’s stupid was all he’d say, going on to complain. “Why they he’ll are you crying?”, The words ran in her head

The wine, a complex tasting dry white wine, was the most complex thing in terms of the way he though and believed that she ever got from him. He never understood feelings or emotions of others let alone hers. As she sipped her glass she wondered if he had ever understood his own.

She was almost done with the first glass when the tears welled up in her eyes. Why couldn’t he have been a real father, Loving, caring, nurturing, paternal? There was no warmth, no confidence instilled, always criticism. She drew in a deep breath, took the glass to her lips and as she drank the last bits in the glass, she thought, “Goodbye father, my you truly Rest In Peace.

She set the glass down broke off a piece of bread, poured more wine and cried. Thoughts filled her minds “How do you mourn someone you were never close to but loved? “. “How do you deal with and come to terms with the death of someone you don’t really understand or know?” “How?” Well now she’d find out.

The wine was warming her and taking off the edge. She was tired. Sitting back in her chair, she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. Bye she murmured as she drifted off.

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