Sharon Letts |
No different than most, Caitlin’s smoking tray held a hand-blown glass pipe, a small, round grinder made from redwood, a vintage model ashtray, a sage smudge stick and a lighter |
“It’s Not Weeds, It’s Real.”
By Sharon Letts
Jake shut the bathroom door behind him, cracked the window, dropped his drawers and sat down on the toilet.
And so begins the morning ritual of medicating.
Removing his smoking tray from the cupboard under the sink, he rinsed the previous evening’s dirty bong water, filling it with fresh, wiping it down with a rag, and setting it aside. Next, he chooses his medicine from an assortment of small, glass Mason jars.
“Cat Piss,” he said, adding, “Where in the hell do they come up with these names?”
Breaking up the bud and filling the grinder, he thought, “Down to the last nug.” He filled the bowl with soft, gray-green goodness and inhaled, closing his eyes, “Doesn’t smell a thing like cat piss!”