'Three Bottles of Château Grandpa' by David X. Lewis

We hold the demijohn to the light. The juice I’ve trodden from Grandpa’s grapes is murky. 

Grandpa says not to worry: it will clear after fermentation.

The liquid wurgles for weeks in Granny’s airing cupboard, but stays cloudy and tastes vile.

Grandpa says not to worry: it will mature.

We fill three Lucozade bottles with the funnel he uses for motor oil. I make labels for our first vintage.

There is no second. Grandpa dies as new grapes grow in the greenhouse. 

I find the bottles after Granny’s death. Seven years on, when I’m eighteen. Château Grandpa tastes good. And light shines through.

Not to worry.