“Ordinarily I was not a morning drinker. The Southern California climate is too soft for it. You don’t metabolize fast enough.” Raymond Chandler
Frankly, it never occurred to me to drink in the morning. There have been times when I wished I could feel some kind of release in alcohol, but I don’t. There was a period when I was dealing a lot with death, the slow dying of people I loved, and there were twenty-four hours days I spent bedside in the ICU catching five minute naps and feeding on cups of pudding the nurses would hand me at two in the morning. I would hear the soft steps of the staff, the hum of the air purifiers, and sometimes my mother calling for her mother in the voice of a seven year-old. When I would get home from that, the sky would darken, the time would come when I should be sleeping then I would go to the freezer and pull out a bottle of vodka and pour myself a clear syrupy shot and down it in one and still I would lie in bed and listen, waiting. Maybe it was my metabolism, or maybe when death demands your attention there’s nothing on earth that will silence it.