On this sunny day,
In the sun room
Sitting, around clutters of French baguette,
And cheese, olives and pepper
They bring in a bottle of unopened
Wine.
This very wine that has sin written all over
This very wine that I forbid myself to look upon
This very wine that my children are supposed
To refrain from.
Yet here they are.
Drinking.
Laughing.
But they change.
The children you raise and appraise
The children you teach, the learned
Right before you, 30 years later,
And they are not the same
Drinking sin.
Talking sin.
No, they are not what you thought
And you have no say, not after 30 years
Not today.
Their glasses clinging,
I lower my gaze, staring at the ant crawling on my shoe
They raise theirs, and ask I break my silence.
But they are asking me to accept and adhere
To their reprisal.
After years of abiding by our dreams
They now turn their back
And drink, and expect.
I bear this heavy guilt, as red and thick as their wine.