Every time I pick up a glass, I am afraidbecause addiction runs in my family,because I could not save dad from it,and because while I am as stubbornas a fat, little dog, I worry that one dayI’ll slip into a shape I can’t shake off.My relationship to reality is already fraught.The hours I give to volcano podcastsand vampire T.V. shows prove that I am susceptibleto disconnection. I’ve inherited other things:dad’s glossy hair, his rash-prone skin,his nasal cavity’s dramatic reactionto cats. I remember lying sideby side on his bed, the dark blueand cream floral comforter that felt coldto the touch. He was teaching mehow to meditate, or more precisely, how to builda place in my mind I could retreat to.“Imagine a pond,” he said, “smooth the ripples out,”and he counted until I slowed my breath,my heartbeat. “This is how you can pretend to be dead,”he said, “if you ever need to.”