Drowning in Red Wine

In 1986, at 25, I stopped drinking alcohol. My father had already died by then, at 56, from acute alcoholism, so I was no stranger to addiction. I’d seen it firsthand. I’d seen the car accidents and subsequent hospital stays, the falling down and the inevitable broken limbs, the stumbling up Main Street in smalltown Maine, and the arrests. I’d seen the loss of control of body and faculties, the rage, the self-hatred, the drunk tanks. I’d seen the soul sickness, the shame, the death and the wreckage. I’d seen a good, good man utterly ruined. Ultimately my father passed away from organ failure and cirrhosis of the liver. I was with him when he died. I will always be grateful for that.