Two-Fourteen Million Barrels

Sad news from Newfoundland. 

Both times I said that today I broke into the kind of involuntary tears and gasps that emerge only in times of potent grief.  Trying to find some words, as I sit here in the glow of the first sips of a $98.98 bottle of 2012 Chablis Grand Cru Les Preuses Domaine William Fevre.  Last time I had this type of wine (albeit of somewhat inferior quality) was in Bermuda at that hotel I never ended up paying for, en route to the Sheraton in Toronto.

Quite the whirlwind that.  FS not convinced by then, but would be for other island sunsets.  The first and likely last chance with MM.  And a glimpse into the world of top-flight arbitration chambers alongside a true pleasure of a colleague.  He knew life and loved it, enjoyed fine drink and utilized it, and laughed, oh how he was always laughing, with such a sparkle in his eyes.

I loved how he used to draw those imaginary rectangles in working through logic out loud.  He would have so relished this upcoming fight that will suffer without his involvement.  These arguments over wording and intent and money that seem so meaningless by comparison.  Whereas the importance of indulging in ridiculous adventures seems all the more relevant, appropriate, and necessary now.

This was a file that led in part to the first Arsenal trip to Wembley that ended in triumph.  So thanks be for that.  And for all the little bits of wit and insight and marvel and joy shared along the while with the fine wine.  The glass is raised.  In the last days and hours, as anger turned to fear (even possibly then to acceptance?) and thoughts turned to physics and to writing, I wonder if it was comforting or maddening, how little we know of where we have been or what is to come.  How little we know of the nature of things or the cause of things or the consequence. 

No answers.  Only memories.  The best kind too, which inspire the making of new ones.  And help strengthen the focus on enjoyment of the time that is now.  It is later than we think.