The Last Sip
A short story in remembrance of the last supper
The last drop touched his lips and instantaneously left him longing for the night he met the wine that would change his life. He didn’t know what he was saving the final ounce for — he just told himself he would know when it was time to finish the wine that was being stored by his bed for the last few weeks. And today was the day he would pour his final cup and relish in his freshly formed memory. He stared upwards towards the door at the top of his stairs, complacent with the tear rolling off his chin and into the empty, red-stained cup. As he inched towards the staircase, a smile began to form, growing with his expectations of what was beyond the door.
Just weeks ago, a group of men insisted that they use his guest room for the night to celebrate the holiday. Their pleading seemed graciously urgent, leaving him with no reason to deny them of their request. After all, his guest room had grown accustomed to frequent travelers, but it had been years since a group of that size had taken a meal in that room. It didn’t help that he had already made arrangements to visit his nephew for the evening to teach him how to bake bread for the holiday at hand. But before he left his home, he offered the men a vessel of wine he received from the widow on the corner of the city square in exchange for the bread he baked and delivered to her every Monday for a month. He quickly poured the wine into a more hospitable vessel, pulled out a couple of loaves he was able to preserve, and placed them on the table for the men who were now taking over his guest room. These were the memories that grew his smile as he approached the door at the end of his stairs. By the time he had returned to his home from helping his nephew, the room was screaming with a silence that he dared not to disturb. He never knew so many men could make so little noise.
Now, with the cup in hand, he opens the door at the top of the stairs and is flooded with thoughts of what could have taken place in this room that night. The room feels weightier, brimming with a somber significance. He left it untouched since that night, afraid to be invasive to a moment not belonging to him. But now he sits at the table, intrigued by the fond memory of the last man who walked out of it carrying the remaining wine he had offered the men. He remembers the man’s eyes being a glorious mixture of mission and sorrow. Full of too many questions to ask, he stood still and silent as the men slumbered their way out of his house. There was no need to check the room for a potential mess — the homeowner felt sincere gratitude and grace from the last man handing him the remaining wine. He placed the wine by his bed and lay there wide awake, unsure of what took place in his upper room.
It had only been a couple of hours since he witnessed the miracle. While delivering bread to the town’s carpenter, he saw a group of men gazing into the sky. Seeing nothing, he walked towards them, curiosity and familiarity growing the closer he got. It was the men who borrowed his guest room a few weeks ago, peering into the sky with eyes of hopelessness. Just as he opened his mouth to make sense of the situation, two men dressed in white appeared saying, “Why do you stand here looking into the sky? This same man, who has been taken from you, will come back in the same way you have seen him go.” The group of men embraced each other with tears trickling through their smiles, joyfully proclaiming, “He’s coming back! He’s coming back!” As they ran towards the city, the man with the bread shouted, “What was his name?”
“His name is Jesus! And he’s coming back!”
Just as he had thought, the upper room was in pristine condition, with only a loaf of bread remaining right where he placed it. He reaches to throw it out but freezes to his seat to the touch of a warm, fresh loaf. A few weeks old, how could it be? Taking a bite with hesitation, he tastes quality surpassing that of the finest bread he’s ever baked. He looks down at his quivering hands as he feels a splash fall to his knee — the cup he had just taken his final sip of wine from is now full to the brim. Confused, yet comforted, he slowly moves the cup towards his lips, takes a sip, and knows the stories are true. There were rumors of a man of miracles dying and raising from his grave three days later. He takes another sip, knowing those rumors have transformed into his reality, and instantaneously longed for the night he was first introduced to the wine that would change his life.
