My mother’s family has a grapewine business and with that, of course, they have a vineyard. Since I was little, every harvest time I visit here with her for both as a vacation and an additional manpower. I enjoy being in France more than I do in New York. I had begged my mother a couple of times for us to settle in her childhood land, but due to our business circumstances, it always ended up with a no.
The time the grapes are harvested is considered to be the émile Family’s secret of superb wine quality, and since I am my mother’s daughter and an émile, I am shared with this well-guarded secret. At early dawn, when mist still lingers and the vines are at their freshest proved to be the best time where the picker can choose the most promising batches.
Hardworking and excited as I am, I was in the vineyard earlier than the supposed perfect time. There were no workers yet except for two old maids who I can see a few yards away from me. Wearing a coat, boots and skinny jeans, I let myself get immersed with the surrounding nature as I stood in one of the thousands of vine rows.
The dark sky had the beginnings of a violet and orange tinge. The grey and white clouds were feathery and easy to look at. Fresh cold air flushed my lungs as I inhaled deeply. There were chirping of birds nearby and I would have reveled on the sweetness of their tune if not for the gunfire that suddenly resounded throughout the entire area.