When the morning comes

29 | Hannah

Quinta de la Rosa, 2004 wine

My meekest Zev. Do you remember waking up together after our wedding day? Our first night together? Presents and letters were sent to the lake house. We awoke slowly, and I remember your timid smile, your disheveled hair and the rosiness on your cheeks from the sleep. We kissed, melted together once more and threw ourselves into the letters and presents from family and friends whilst in bed, still.

"Who the heck is Poppy?" Your eyebrows were furrowed, I remember how your expression changed a moment later. "Ooooh.." A sheepish chuckle. "The new neighbor."

"How thoughtful to send us a card." I chuckled too, wondered why she had given us so many bags of Pickwick tea.

"And who is Lavender?"

"Isn't that your mum's family?" I fully drank in your presence, your smell, your everything. I knew there was no place that was better than waking up together, watching dawn, hearing the calmness of the lake and laughing at cards full of wishes from people we didn't know. "She has her last name."

"Oh." You laughed, hid your face in the covers of the bed. "Sorry."

I'd wrapped my arms around you, whilst you read the letters and cards to me, opened the presents and admired the, mostly, useless presents we had been given. A candle. A plant. The only thing we'd liked getting was wine. Especially the Quinta de la Rosa. Mhm.

When most of the presents had been opened, you had shoved open the curtain and we devoured the view of dawn. An orange glow laid on the lake, as well as the early morning dew. Clouds hung between the mountains and when the only noise heard were our breathing.. that's when we heard him. Oprapa. Oh, I get emotional thinking back about that moment.

A grandpa, his appearances told us that it wouldn't take long before he'd become one with soil. Grey hairs, wrinkles that told us the story of his hard working past life. Rough hands. Strength in the muscles that were hidden in his thin arms and legs. But his voice..

We gazed at a little boat, full of fish and the grandpa who sang the stars out of the sky with his old, creaky but most powerful voice I had heard coming from a throat. He rowed our way- only wore a white short sleeved shirt and shorts, even when we were shivering. We had smiled at each other, got dressed without saying much more.

After a moment, we had strolled down to the lake, where we met him. He had given us a smile, while he stripped the fish from its skin. He had continued singing, while the both of us had watched how he prepared the fish before it could be grilled. "Buongiorno, amore coppia.." He had spoken in rapid Italian and I had answered him with my own language, explaining everything to you.

"He goes fishing around 5 am every morning.. singing all the way long, only stops when he catches a fish." I had smiled, admired the old man. "He used to sing in a choir.. oh, he wants us to eat with him tonight, do you want to?"

"Yeah." Your eyes had sparkled, you admired him as much as I had done, which warmed me. You put so much effort in getting to know the community where I'd grown up in.. the language.. the country, everything.

The next couple of mornings, we had listened to his singing with a smile on our faces. Sometimes I wonder what happened to him. Do you think he's still alive? Or if he passed, when did he? Did he pass, singing with a smile on his face? He was so content with life..

We'd never got to know his name, and since he was a grandpa and sang opera.. oprapa.. explains itself.

After we had spent a couple of delightful days at the lake in Italy, it was time to go back home. To our home. You had been a hard-working boy ever since you had turned the legal age to work, but before that you'd had a couple of jobs where you earned without anyone knowings. Small jobs like when you were eight, you baked cookies, cakes and scones and sold them through a small stall that stood at the road. Washing cars when you were eleven, writing poems for people who weren't able to do it theirselves, but wanted poems for their loved ones anniversaries, friends' birthdays or the birth of children when you were fourteen.