We had plans to spend the weekend in Newport Beach with his father. Mine was in Boston, a coast away, and there was no real reason why we opted for his father and not mine other than distance and our jobs, I suppose, and vacation time and maybe because he was the son and it just made more sense in a weirdly traditional, patriarchal way. We usually drove when we visited his parents; it was only five hours, a straight shot across I-10, desert to beach. But for some reason, this time we flew, and unsurprisingly ended up at an airport bar—generic, basic, reeking of tequila and Budweiser and despair—because our flight was delayed. I say “unsurprisingly” because that was what we did. We drank.
This story originally appeared in June 2024 in the literary magazine, Short Reads
“The little apocalypse would repeat again and again, the needle stuck on the grooves of my life … “ This piece is a painful yet beautiful read, Amie. Your life—and your writing—are testaments to your ability to find the diamond in the rough and polish it to brilliance. Kudos, dear friend.
So very moving. My older brother died from liver failure due to alcoholism. So sad. Glad you were able to overcome your addition. I wish he had been able to.