First published in The Corvus Review.

Save me your corks, mother said, so I popped a bottle of prosecco, a cork sprung from the rim, and a dainty glass to drink from. It was sweet and crisp, the zing of lemongrass sticking to our tongues. I have an idea, she smiled, something to make with the corks, so I found a basket to drop them in and plucked them from bottle tops. In February, a rioja, its tannins staining the speckled cork. I’m going to make something neat, she teased, so in May we shared a rosé, pink breath and honeydew lingering between our lips. Don’t forget my corks, she reminded, so in the summer we sipped Riesling, savoring jasmine’s sweet notes. I’ll take the cork, I winked, when she held her glass out for the chardonnay, hints of pear dripping down its sides. You’ll never guess what I’m making you, she sang, the cabernet tinting her thin lips. I breathed in her oakiness and offered guesses: A corkboard? Too easy. No, a purse! She laughed as the ends of her blonde bob swished across slim shoulders. In September when she died, I inhaled a Tempranillo, blackberry currant and dry, a piece of the cork peeling away. The time before she died blended into the time after she died like an oak barrel absorbed wine. I kept overflowing the basket, a solitary swish of pinot noir, silky on my tongue but thick in the throat like grief, a bit of mocha when you swallow. A sauvignon blanc on her birthday, citrus verses and biting acid tinging the inner flesh of my cheeks. She’s been gone seven years now. And still, I collect the corks. They stare back at me from their basket, a mosaic tribute to her, wondering what she would have made of them.