The last bottle
I have brewed a new batch of beer, a stout. Thus, I have had to try to find all of my old homebrew bottles. This isn't a problem, except for the one bottle, still full, sitting in the fridge.
For the last five years.
What is in it I called Memorial Mead. I crafted it in memory of my son, Sean Christopher, who died at 11 months old in May of 2000. Shortly after he died, a generous donation from a friend sent us on a "vacation" to Estes Park, Colorado. I hesitate to call it a vacation. Perhaps hiatus. Perhaps retreat. Perhaps something else. I don't know. Anyway, on the way from Estes Park back to the Denver airport, we passed a small apiary, run by one woman. We asked the shuttle driver to stop, as we were the only passengers on board. We were there for a while, sampling the three or four different types of honey she had available. We settled on a dark, rich, almost smoky wildflower honey. It was quite unlike any other honey I'd seen before. It was the color of molasses, but tasted like I'd always imagined ambrosia would taste. I bought fifteen pounds of it, and took it home.
I made a mead that next week with champagne yeast, and it aged for a year. After a year, it was barely drinkable. After two, it was tolerable but rough. After three, it was pleasant and warming. It was, until last week, the last time I had brewed. It sat in 16 ounce bottles, being consumed a bottle here, a bottle there. In May of 2003, at a large campout with friends, I took about a case of it with me, and toasted my son, and proceeded to get well drunk on the stuff, as well as intoxicating many of my friends with it. That was the end of the stuff, except for this one last bottle. Sitting in my refrigerator for half a decade. Perched upon my Frigidaire's shelf like Poe's corvid tormentor.
My life has changed radically since I brewed my son's Memorial Mead. I've had two more children, a boy and a girl, both healthy and happy. I'm divorced, amicably, now. I've changed jobs. I'm starting a whole new life, with a clean slate, with my children and my memories as the only real ties to my past.
Except that bottle. It still is sitting, still is sitting. Just inside my fridge's door.
Or it was, until a moment ago.
As I pour it, I notice the light carbonation, exactly what I wanted it to be. It's much paler now, almost the color of Scotch whiskey. I'm no wine connoisseur, I don't know how to express the character of the wine the way a professional or learned amateur might. But the aroma, my God, the aroma. It smells just like I remember that wildflower honey smelled, five and a half years ago, in that Denver spring. My first sip of it is clean, not at all cloying, and warming. It's quite alcoholic, but incredibly smooth.
And now I've gone and ruined it by crying in it.
Sean, if I had a flower for every time I thought of you,
I could walk through my garden forever.
For the last five years.
What is in it I called Memorial Mead. I crafted it in memory of my son, Sean Christopher, who died at 11 months old in May of 2000. Shortly after he died, a generous donation from a friend sent us on a "vacation" to Estes Park, Colorado. I hesitate to call it a vacation. Perhaps hiatus. Perhaps retreat. Perhaps something else. I don't know. Anyway, on the way from Estes Park back to the Denver airport, we passed a small apiary, run by one woman. We asked the shuttle driver to stop, as we were the only passengers on board. We were there for a while, sampling the three or four different types of honey she had available. We settled on a dark, rich, almost smoky wildflower honey. It was quite unlike any other honey I'd seen before. It was the color of molasses, but tasted like I'd always imagined ambrosia would taste. I bought fifteen pounds of it, and took it home.
I made a mead that next week with champagne yeast, and it aged for a year. After a year, it was barely drinkable. After two, it was tolerable but rough. After three, it was pleasant and warming. It was, until last week, the last time I had brewed. It sat in 16 ounce bottles, being consumed a bottle here, a bottle there. In May of 2003, at a large campout with friends, I took about a case of it with me, and toasted my son, and proceeded to get well drunk on the stuff, as well as intoxicating many of my friends with it. That was the end of the stuff, except for this one last bottle. Sitting in my refrigerator for half a decade. Perched upon my Frigidaire's shelf like Poe's corvid tormentor.
My life has changed radically since I brewed my son's Memorial Mead. I've had two more children, a boy and a girl, both healthy and happy. I'm divorced, amicably, now. I've changed jobs. I'm starting a whole new life, with a clean slate, with my children and my memories as the only real ties to my past.
Except that bottle. It still is sitting, still is sitting. Just inside my fridge's door.
Or it was, until a moment ago.
As I pour it, I notice the light carbonation, exactly what I wanted it to be. It's much paler now, almost the color of Scotch whiskey. I'm no wine connoisseur, I don't know how to express the character of the wine the way a professional or learned amateur might. But the aroma, my God, the aroma. It smells just like I remember that wildflower honey smelled, five and a half years ago, in that Denver spring. My first sip of it is clean, not at all cloying, and warming. It's quite alcoholic, but incredibly smooth.
And now I've gone and ruined it by crying in it.
Sean, if I had a flower for every time I thought of you,
I could walk through my garden forever.