Rain threatened from the west. Though it had been a warm morning, warm for late December, with the advancing clouds the breeze had freshened and the temperature had begun to drop. Still, in the park children in new coats raced around on new bikes, just as walkers in new shoes loped along the path around the lake, each faction dodging the other in a swirling ballet.

There was a sign - No Alcohol Permitted In The Park - at every entrance. But behind the bench at the far corner of the lake, an elderly gentleman dug into the deep pockets of his overcoat and removed two glasses, a bottle of cabernet and a corkscrew. He set the glasses on the bench and skillfully, yet with shaking hands, pulled the cork. He poured out two healthily glasses and set the bottle down on the bench between them. He removed his gray fedora and bowed his head for a moment. With odd care he snuggled the hat back on his ihead and reached for the glass on the left. He held it, aloft as though inviting the failing sun to warm it, until the palsy struck again. As he put the glass to his lips he suffered another slight tremor which left a small red bead in the corner of his mouth. He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his mouth. He sipped from the glass again.

A small boy rode a new scooter along the walkway. A woman cantered along just behind him. When they came upon the man, the boy took notice, as boys will, of the bottle standing on the bench. He stopped as though he had come to the edge of a cliff and turned to the woman, who quickly pulled up beside him. "Look," he whispered and pointed to the bench. The woman followed the boy's finger and quickly turned away. "It's okay, let's go," she said and gave him a loving shove on his rump.

After a time, the man, in all seriousness, turned his glass up and finished his wine as if obligated. He took the full glass and drizzled its content across the bench. After a slight pause he took the remainder of the bottle to the edge of the pond and poured it into the water. For an instant, the gray water sparkled with the blood of the grape. The man waited. When there was no trace of wine in the water, he turned his back to the water and the distant past, returned to the bench, and shoved the glasses into the pocket of his overcoat. On his way from the bench he pitched the nearly full wine bottle into the trash bin and began the climb to the parking lot and another year.