30 years have passed since I last used any sort of cannabis. I took my final hit on a joint the night before my wedding. My matron of honor and her husband, staying in a room just down the hotel hall, offered it to me to calm my nerves. I wasn't nervous about getting married, but I was dealing with the fact that my mother had shown up the day before after avoiding me for a couple of months. I was shaken up by her appearance. She was skin and bones and very sick from a recurrence of cancer. I used the marijuana to relax enough to go to sleep.
My high-school-age son had an old Casio keyboard. It was handed down to him by his grandmother when he was small. He composed some of his first tunes on it. He played sing-along songs for his little sister. He sang to me, accompanied by that little electronic piano. When our family home was foreclosed, my son took his keyboard deep into our woods, propped it against a tree, and left it there. It was the day all of us became briefly homeless. No other place else could be called home by any of us, for a long time after that.
Summertime brought the buzzing,