In my homeland the tragic love affair with drink is so powerful that men sew tiny vials of poison under their skin as a form of love letter. My uncle had the ampule sewn in but loved the ferment so much that he cut himself open and fished it out, the way he learned to do during all our summers together at the river before he died of an aneurysm at the age of 41. My mother says my grandfather knew how to drink—a compliment reserved only for men immune to alcohol addiction. In every family there is a wishlist of desired traits to pass down. In ours, holding your liquor meant being a man of your word. But, my father held it no better than a slippery fish in his machinist’s hands. I wonder if there is a special place in the afterlife for alcoholics.  Perhaps, in their next lifetime, they are destined to become fish. Perhaps pirates or sharks. Some must transform into octopi so they can perfect the subtle art of getting out of their own way. I think that’s what those folk tales I’d grown up reading were really about—talking fish who were actually alcoholic fishermen, given second chances. Men who couldn’t hold their liquor so it turned into rivers, swallowing them whole, drowning their wives and daughters.