By ABIGAIL KOERNER
Concrete steps down into a woodland escape were my favorite place to walk. I’d hop skip and jump down to where they ended and the dirt and grass began. Trees billowed out overhead to guard my body from any sunlight which could have blinded me. Behind sunglasses, I’d look up and gaze at the clouds.
Clouds like puffs of smoke which escaped my lips. Sitting on a log or on a tree stump or even on the steps I’d smile over at whoever sat beside me in my little spot. I’d pass the joint.
Seconds turned to minutes turned to hours and day turned to night and I’d be high as shit sitting on those stairs. Probably still staring at clouds. Puff, puff, passing around whatever would yield the greatest flame. The burn in my throat like the haze over my mind would lull me to sleep if wanted. Sweet days, sweet smoke. Buds of green in the palms of my hand to be broken down by you or by me. Then rolled into a blunt – split by hand, licked by tongue, flicked by bic, smoked by lungs.
I wish that my mind could rest this easy always. Like summer days when you and me would sit by the bay and laugh and talk and smoke. Winter nights when we tiptoed out into the cold, wet night when parents were sleeping. We tiptoed out to see each other and smoke would escape our lips – not to be confused with frosty breaths that warmed the tongue between cool, crisp breaths in. To breathe out! Then crawl back to whatever place my body could fold up into properly. THC feeling like I could just melt. Buttery popcorn to follow. Coca cola to trickle down my throat and I’d feel carbonation like I never felt it before. Finally, peace.
Abigail Koerner (firstname.lastname@example.org) writes short fiction, but not always after burning a fat one!