Untimely Frost ~ WattPride 2023 ~

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"Death lies on her like an untimely frost

Upon the sweetest flower of all the field." 

 (Romeo and Juliet Act IV, Scene V, Line 33) 

I remember the summer of 2010 as though it was a heartbeat away. I was nineteen then – lingering between being a man and being stuck in the folly of youth.

I grew up in the summer-sweetness of an Italian village, one rich in canopies of red and white grapes which grew to unimaginable sizes for they were blessed by the honey rays of the sun.

My father wanted me to take over our vineyard, to become a well-to-do businessman in a town so tiny it reminded me of a thimble. But my mother said my dove soul was too big for this piccolo villaggio and I needed to spread my wings and fly far...far...away where I could compose my music and play the piano for crowds who appreciated my God-given talent and not simply for the grapes and the bees that buzzed around them.

All I wanted to do was not think about whether or not I would pick learning my family's wine-making business over escaping to other places – as my mother said I should.

After my mother and I, the vineyard was my father's joy. He fawned over his bottles of wine like a parent does over a newborn. He had been given the vineyard by his own father, who had received it from his father. The Caglierie Wines were a respected sort and we sent out truckloads to all of Italy and most of the European Union. I knew it was my father's desire to one day be welcomed into North America and Australia. I knew he wanted me to be a part of this project.

But I was a dreamer. A poet. I loitered around the house during the day and when night came, I was brought to life.

My parents had bought me a piano on my sixth birthday and I became enthralled with each and every key. I was schooled by the best tutors they could find, yet I also spend many hours on the ivories on my own. They never had to say to me, "Gianni, study your piano lesson." because I always was. By the age of thirteen, I was composting my own songs. Marring my two great loves, music and poetry, I found euphoria.

When my parents slept in their room upstairs, I would creep downstairs and play till three or four AM. Sometimes I would steal a glass of wine, my teenage fingers tenderly holding onto the stem of my mother's crystal glasses as though I were a noble sort. It was never a huge amount, never more than a sip or two. It made me feel older, grander, a true Caglierie.

I still dream of the summer of 2010. It's never far from my thoughts. If you ask me to recite that moment in time for you I easily could. It was as though it was yesterday, a heartbeat away.

My parents had been married for thirty years then and a lavish celebration was to take place.

Hired help buzzed around feverishly. Tables were polished, rugs were cleaned. Silverware was made to shine. In our garden, tables were set up. Huge rosebushes were planted and the flowers made the air fragrant with their perfume.

Our living area had floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the yard. The French doors were pulled open and the chiffon curtains fluttered like a bride's veil in the summer breeze.

My grand piano had always sat in the middle of the living area as regal as a prince. Some of the other pieces of furniture had been rearranged or moved into storage so that velvety chairs could be placed in a semi-circle around the piano. I had promised my mother and father I would play for them and their guests and I wanted everything to be perfect. I had been working feverishly on a new piece for the occasion.