I found my home in Germany: the land of my mother’s family. We followed the Rhine River like an arrow upstream until we reached the home I didn’t know I was missing. Lines of vines crossed the hills above the silent river, guarded by three castles. My serenity slid into him like this river into the ocean so far north. My home, after all, was his. He took me to an ancient, underground cellar where it only took three steps to cross from spring back into winter. The wine was clear and sweet like icicles we’d left in Canada. It was old and sorely won like the past we’d left in Canada. “Im wein liegt die wahrheit,” said the printed German on the barrels surrounding us. In wine, there is truth.
We watched the sunrise on the banks of the river. I taught him broken German and wondered if it could be mended. He looked at me as if he knew and said, “Dies könnte unsere Zukunft sein.” This could be our future.