The sound of ice cubes tinkling in a glass will forever be linked with my mother in my mind. Ice water, scotch and water with ice, ice in her glass of wine. The tinkling sounds can be heard as she walks, sits or stands, and in conjunction with each of her proclamations, suggestions, angry outbursts, and long narratives. I hear it even when she’s not in my home, over the telephone, an accompaniment to every conversation.
Only one more day left to go in The Visit.
Happily Sober even while annoyed by the continual presence of wine on Tuesday,