VIVANT Moment

There’s this old tune, Wine Brewed by Love, that I used to belt out with reckless abandon in my youth—lungs full, heart wild. These days, out of deference to its tender legacy (and, frankly, my creaking years), I’ve banished it from my KTV repertoire. But oh, how I marvel at those brave souls who still press play. Curiosity, you see, gets me first—that slick title alone begs the question: does such a nectar truly exist? Then sympathy creeps in—what happens after the last note fades? Don’t those raw, wailing lyrics just rip the scab off old wounds?

So when Daniel unearthed a bottle to toast some returning classmates from New York, I was hooked. This wasn’t just any wine—she was a 1959 vintage, birthed the same year as us lot. Picture it: her vines basking in a sun-kissed French vineyard, caressed by breezes, while we were toddling about on an island still licking its wounds from the Battle of Kinmen. She arrived in a world ablaze with passion and pain, just like we did. That day, as the cork eased free with a reverent pop, her perfume danced across our tongues—soft, teasing, alive. A gaggle of grizzled old codgers gathered round, hearts thumping with something like nerves, until we all roared in unison, “The wine’s still kicking!” France’s golden sun had woven her into a tapestry of depth and elegance—enough to make even the haughtiest gent tip his hat in defeat.

Turns out, Wine Brewed by Love isn’t just a song—it’s real, and she whispered her story to us, sip by sip, to a table of weathered contemporaries. They say old soldiers never die, they just fade away. I say old wine doesn’t spoil—it waits, patient and potent, for the right moment to unfurl. Next time, I might just dare that song again. Not because it’ll scald my tongue—oh no—but because it’ll set my restless soul alight. It won’t blister my lips, but it’ll torch the embers of my long-lost youth. And isn’t that worth a encore?