This is the kind of cold, wet, gray day that I used to pretend I was in England
and take out the Single Malt Scotch and have a long drink over some ice.
I used to love to hear the ice crack - and smell the aroma of the whisky as it would rise up to my nostrils and when it was finished, I would invariably think it not so bad to pour another
because where can you go in a dark drizzle other than England or someplace like it
and perhaps I would find my father somewhere along the way
though he was always drinking vodka and going to Russia or someplace like that
and co-traveling with my father albeit simultaneously to different places
was a romantic notion, so like I do with all romantic things, I fell in love with it,
after all we were fellow travelers and then we would have another and then some
until one day I realized that we had only gone to Drunkagainland,
which in reality, is a place I only hoped to leave as soon as I would arrive.
Sometimes it takes me a long time to realize things like this.
Fifty years to get from easy to peasy.