Apparently when I was three I rolled my first joint. I don’t recall it but my mom does.
“I don’t know how you did it. I guess you watched me do it so many times you just learned,” my mom told me.
“It wasn’t actually pot. Just seeds. But you put them in a paper and rolled it up like you were going to smoke it. We all laughed and thought it was so cute. But it’s not funny. It wasn’t cute. I’m sorry.”
That’s how a lot of conversations between my mother and I have unfolded.
“I thought it was funny. I thought it was cute. I’m sorry.”
Actually, these days apologies are few and far between. A couple years ago when my mother told me that story, she was sorry for having exposed me to everything so young. I’d be surprised if she were able to remember that story today.
She used to demonstrate a desire to be clean. Even when she was using meth all night while I tried to sleep, I knew she wanted to be clean. It’s all she would talk about when she came down.
If it were a school day I’d probably be late. I’d probably show up hungry. Most times I’d make it to class, though. My mom needed to sleep. Sometimes she’d sleep too much. I’d be the last kid on the lawn of the elementary school, talking to the crossing guard.
“I forget things all the time,” the Santa Clause look-a-like told me from his lawn chair, stop sign in hand.
“I used to tie a string around my finger to remind myself of something. It worked until I forgot what the string was for in the first place,” he laughed.
Sometimes my mom’s white mini van would show up. If it didn’t, I’d walk to my cousin’s house and wait there for her. She almost always showed up eventually.