Photo by Victor Hughes on Unsplash

When it came close to Christmas, just after I turned six, a beautiful bottle appeared in the crystal bowl on the sideboard. It sat atop the cloths and scarves that otherwise filled the bowl and I saw it as I turned toward the stairs, having just lit my candle to show me the way. The flame reflected off the liquid in the bottle. I turned to ask what it was, Granny told me to watch my candle and not to worry about the bottle.

For weeks is just sat there, and I wondered why no-one drank it, or even spoke about it. I wondered if it might be something magical, like Alice’s “Drink Me” bottle when she fell down the rabbit hole. Again and again I tried to ask about it, but eventually Granny told me not to be a Nosy Parker. I remember looking at Granddad, expecting an ally but he was intent on his newspaper. I tried my best to forget about it.

Then one night as I was ready for bed I looked at the bottle and saw that a little was gone from the neck of the bottle. Being a bit overtired from Christmas choir from school, I ignored what I saw, but curiosity won. The next evening I asked again soon after tea and Granddad told Granny it’s alright. Granny told me to bring the bottle.

I carried it carefully and gave it to Granny, and she handed it to Granddad. He opened the bottle, poured a drop into the cap, and told me to drink it. Expecting a honeyed taste of something like mead, which both Greek gods and knights of Camelot drank, I tipped the cap and swallowed the golden liquid.

It burned my throat and made me choke. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes teared and my nose burned. Granny and Granddad sat calmly until my fit stopped, then Granny wiped my face with a warm towel, and gave me a small glass of milk. I sat by the fire for awhile, feeling betrayed and quite foolish. Granny told me to get ready for bed, that we wouldn’t talk about it again, but I had one more question. What was the liquid that looked so very special, and was so cruel to me?

That is whiskey, said my Grandmother.