My Life as a Grape

Reflection No. 32

My name is Gisele. I lived on the side of a mountain with my brothers, sisters and cousins, clinging lazily to our parent vines, enjoying the quiet sound of the air and the warmth of the sun. Our parent vines have been firmly rooted here for so many vintages that no one remembers how many anymore. I was born a little bud in early June, and as time passed I blossomed into my lovely grapeness. When it got too warm, the night soothed and nourished us with the moisture of the sea. We grew well, and eventually we all matured from green to a deep, dark red and became ripe with freshness and the good manners of balanced sweetness and acidity, just the way our vines and Mother Earth taught us. 

One morning in late September the sun rose with the sound of cars approaching. Legend tells of this day’s coming every year and yet the reality of the experience was beyond my comprehension. Suddenly hands were reaching through the leaves and snip! I was separated not just from my vine but from my entire existence as I knew it. My peaceful bliss was replaced with a startling sense of claustrophobia as we were dropped on top of each other into buckets, skin to skin, unable to feel the sun. 

I could hear the whir of an engine bumping and clacking as if its life depended on it. We were lifted onto the rickety old tractor and driven away, jostled by every bump in the road. When the engine finally came to a stop we were moved again to a place where the light was so strange and the air was really cold! Suddenly I was pushed onto a table and the hands were back. I was picked up, fondled and held up to the light. Some of the older, dried-up grapes were cast aside with the infirm. But I, in my loveliness, was put back on the table, along with many others, and carried away…

The story continues as Gisele becomes wine: Collective Consciousness