End of a Winey Weekend

The weekend ended the way some weekends do—slowly, in the soft middle space between one last pour and the drive home.

We were out among the rows of vines on the North Fork, where the green feels patient and the air has that quiet, worked-in kind of calm. Someone sits on a set of painted picnic benches, glass in hand, smiling like they’re keeping a small secret. The colors beneath them look almost childlike, like something meant for a playground, but here they belong to the day: bright stripes against grass and trellis lines.

There’s a particular comfort to vineyards. They’re orderly without being stiff. You can hear the place living—leaves shifting, distant voices, the thin clink of glass—while time moves at a different pace. It’s easy to let the weekend stretch longer than it should, to pretend the week ahead is only a rumor.

By the end, though, the sweetness turns reflective. Not sad, just settled. Like closing a door gently instead of letting it swing.

If you’ve ever tried to hold on to a Sunday afternoon, you know the feeling: a small, warm ache to keep what’s good exactly where it is—sunlight, laughter, the last sip—before it becomes memory.