We are Mediterranean: we toast with wine

I write sitting on a pallet, between open barrels, some already full. I see her, all energy, a burst of vitality, climbed up the ladder, helping with her hands—her arms red with must—to make the grapes slide down. I see him, thoughtful, eating a grape of picapoll and smiling without realizing it, because it is delicious. We bring in “my” grapes, the ones we harvested, the toy ones, and immediately from those purple, compact, very healthy Mandó grapes, a juice springs forth that is a miracle. Up on the tractor, the very white teeth of the lanky young man, who is laughing, enjoying the pleasure of driving a machine, stand out in the darkness of the cellar. “He’s a machine!”, I hear someone say.