Love in a Bottle

Each July, like clockwork, it comes—
A small glass bottle,
sealed with care,
and filled with something more than cherries.

They call it cherry bounce,
a cordial from centuries past,
once sipped by Washington himself,
now passed quietly
from one friend to another,
like a secret,
like a blessing.

I picture Larry in his kitchen,
red-stained fingers working through
quart after quart of sun-warmed cherries,
their flesh soft with summer.
He pits them by hand—
slowly, patiently—
then stirs in sugar,
pours in bourbon,
and lets it all steep
in stillness.

But what he's really steeping
is time.
Memory.
Friendship.

Most of it he gives away,
a gift that tastes
like laughter and porch swings,
like music floating from a back room,
like years of knowing and being known.

And when I hold that bottle in my hands—
amber liquid catching the light—
I don’t just taste cherries.
I taste presence.
Sacrifice.
Care.

Aged to smoothness,
sweet with story,
warm with love.

That’s what it really is—
not just a drink,
but love in a bottle.

And every July,
it finds its way home
to me.