An ode to life

December 23, 2017

It's easy to overlook these cigar butts. Few would know that they were snuffed and laid down by three brothers drinking a 23-year-old vintage port--consumed far before its prime because they might not live long enough to appreciate its finest day—on the 19-year anniversary of their father’s death.

We noted his passing during the evening, but the anniversary was coincidental. We gathered to celebrate us. We three had not been together for several years, though memories from our childhood appeared as if they happened yesterday.

Our father had five children from two marriages. I, the youngest of three from his first marriage, am separated from my youngest and oldest brothers by 13 years each.

Five of our father’s eight grandchildren were present. Also missing were a sister-in-law in Eugene, two older siblings in LA, and my father’s widow, who elected to stay home a few miles away, and was likely asleep before dinner was served.

We smiled and laughed, and spoke of how great it felt to have two of us living in the same town again, while hoping the third might move here so young cousins can spend more time with each other.

The port was purchased for special occasions. Initially, one was to be consumed upon my retirement. Since my journalism career has ended, and my daughter and I are both embarking on new careers, we considered this an appropriate time to open a bottle.

I told my brothers how well port pairs with cigars, and opened three that I’d saved from my nephew’s wedding last year. We smoked for a few minutes before returning inside; the bitter temperature matched the stare my niece gave her father as she paused at the patio door.

The cigars were past their prime, and so are we, though we still have a great deal of life left in us. And while my 13 year-old niece may have chastised her father for smoking, one day she may share memories of this evening with her children, while sipping from a bottle of vintage port her uncle set aside for his family and friends to enjoy after his passing.