They call me Avié. I bear the gold handprint of a woman. The caress of the woman who watched me grow, a promise renewed at every grape harvest. Hands shaking in a firm, simple, gesture that seals pacts. Hands that touch to the thrill of young eyes.
In the language of our sages, avié was the word for family gatherings in barns warmed by the breathing of the farm animals. The cold and sagrin (sorrows), worries and problems were all left outside. Then people had a view of the world that didn’t rely on remote-controlled magic boxes. The elders told stories about life and meandering fables. Children made their own fun with shadow plays. Today they call it tradition. In those days it was life. Knowing one another, talking, listening to others.
I still bear the taste for a time that respected time. The simple, rich flavour of good things, real things to be savoured with one’s eyes closed. A child rocked by the words of the grown-ups, feeling sleep approach and dreaming of playing in the sunshine.
The same sunshine that gilds the Moscato grapes. The best of these will be my cradle. It takes time to watch me being born. Every year, that hand will come back to leave its mark, to understand and to understand me.