The Vineyard

The smell of rotting grapes drifts upward into the atmosphere. A path once clear now strewn with vines. An old man walks down the path; his cane pushing the overgrown vines out of his way. The metal tip of the cane scrunching along the dirt path. To his left and right rotted trellises break down. Ants crawl up and down the latticed wood looking for food; the grapes too rotten to eat.

He turns, stopping to inspect one of the dilapidated trellises. The rotten grapes, much more fragrant closer up, a vinegar-like smell. What once were purple bulbs had become brown and moldy. The mold, a white fluffy thing, was no longer resigned merely to the grapes, it spread along the dirt. How deep it went the old man did not know. He returned back to the path and continued to walk it.

Stone steps lead up the hill. The old man lifts his foot up slowly and sets it back down slowly. His hand goes to reach for a railing that is no longer there. He listens for birds but he hears none. His shoes scuff on the stone, the shiny, supple leather kept clean for many years, scratched.

Once the stairs are climbed a sprawling villa once distinguished now crumbling rises from the ground. The bricks are chipped, the door scratched, animals attempting to claim it.

His knees knock together, fear, more than he’d ever admit. It had been sixty years since he had been here.

A glorious vineyard stood on a hill. Trellises picked dry and a young man stood on the steps leading to the vineyard. He wore a new pair of leather shoes gifted to him that day. The young man leaned against a metal railing. He shook men's hands and kissed ladies cheeks as they left. His smile reached up to his cheeks as he wished each person a “Happy Holidays” or “Merry Christmas”, “Happy Hanukkah". As each guest left they would try to sneak in another five or ten minutes of conversation. The final guest shook his hand, and he slumped even harder against the railing, creaking as it supported him. The sound of the jovial guests disappearing down the hill, their laughter echoing after them. He breathed deeply and walked up the stairs to the house when a young woman ran out. She drags the young man over the boundary of the doorway. The young woman’s eyes are bright with tears illuminated by the holiday lights. Her soft hands grip his callused ones and now gently she guides him up the stairs to a bedroom. Each step creaks under their combined weight and as they rise higher the air becomes slowly more suffocating. Once they get to the door she turns the crystal knob ever so slowly. Inside there is nothingness, not black, not a hole, just nothing.

That's what the old man saw in his mind, the memory like a knife dragged over the same old scar. He saw the hands of his wife to be clutching his as she guided him to the room of her dead father. He kept walking forward and used the tip of his cane to push the door open. It creaked the hinges squealing as it slowly opened. In there the nothingness had grown. It had been restricted to that one room but now overran the house. The old man had tears pouring down his cheeks, his thick coat fluttering impossibly around him. He stepped forward slowly towards the house. The nothingness some called limbo.

But really nothingness has always existed across times, across borders, across language. The Norse call it Ginnungagap the gaping void. The Christians call it Limbo, the boundary, the edge. The Buddhists and Hindus have Sunyata emptiness or hollowness. Judaism has Ayin, nothingness. No one nothingness is the same: some are peace, some are creation, some are death.

The old man extends his hand, into the nothingness. Slowly his fingers get engulfed; he walks forward more. Then his scuffed leather shoes, followed by his thick coat. The only sound now is that of his cane that clatters to the ground raising up a cloud of dust.

“Grandpa? Grandpaaa?” Eliza pulls on her grandfather David’s checkered sleeve.

She keeps saying his name “Grandpaa” each time the a’s get longer and the questioning leaves her tone. Her little eyes twinkle confused in the light of the Christmas tree. But Grandpa David just sits in his chair, unmoving. The plush chair beneath him gives as Eliza attempts to climb onto him. Eliza’s mother Sandy rushes into the room, her heels clicking on the wooden floor. She picks Eliza off of her father’s lap, her hands wrapping around Eliza’s middle.

Sandy sets Eliza down and crouches to her level “Eliza, stop.” Sandy huffs. “Please go help your father in the kitchen, darling.” Sandy pats Eliza on the back scooting her towards the door. Eliza looks back at her grandfather but ultimately runs through the doorway screaming about wanting to help papa make dinner. Sandy drops to her knees in front of her father. The rough wooden floor hurts her knees; she knows that they will bruise the next day. She takes her father’s hand as limp as it is, and clutches onto it like a lifeline.

“Papaaa,” a thin strangled voice comes out of her mouth. “Papa why aren’t you here anymore” Sandy grips her father’s face her nails digging in harder than she intends

“I can see you in there, I can see you! Papa, can you see me? I still need your help.”

The sounds of Christmas guests arriving fills the foyer but Sandy doesn’t hear them. She cries her head in her fathers lap and the old man stares. No one remembers how long he has been like this. They keep him in the side room with a fire and the Christmas tree. The burning smell of the wood stove permeates the house. Life is in there but behind a frosted glass.