PAUL CHRISTENSEN

I'm staring out of a large window onto a stone wall where an ancient grape vine hangs heavy with bunches of blue grapes. There's no one to cut down these clusters; the man who trained the vine thirty or forty years ago died a few years back. His wife is too old to put up a ladder and do the trimming of the runners to keep the vine healthy. The grapes are dusty and beginning to dry out. The little arbor where the vine is secured is rusty, but solid. The rest of the stone wall