By Roberta Miles

I got my mother stoned and she was 52. What took her so long? 

I know you can live your whole live without the marihuchi, but why? 

I’m not very fond of alcohol. My boyfriend died of alcohol poisoning; age 27. 

So say what you will, I’ve never known anyone who managed to kill them self from a mari-jane overdose. 

I use to hope that I too could be an alcoholic, but alas, it was not meant to be. What makes a person choose to use a liquid depressant? Why with one toke of grass they could be happy and high.  

But I digress.  

So my mother. 

Knock, knock. 

“Who’s there?” I yelled thru the door of my tiny apartment. 

“It’s your mammy!” 

“Cool, mammy. Come on in.”  

As she stepped over the threshold, she entered the illicit world of pot. 

“Have a brownie? Have a brownie. HAVE A BROWNIE!” 

Actually there was no choice involved, everyone who entered my lair was handed a brownie upon entry. Hey it was my 28th birthday. I was allowed. 

So my mom, she knew it was a pot brownie, we were very close. About 30 minutes later she starts yelling “I’m not high.” 

“Yeah mammy, you are!” “I’m not!” “You are.” And back and forth and back and forth. Then she opens the front door onto the catwalk and calls out. “I’m not high!” 

“Oh, boy, settle down, mom."

“I’m not high!” 

“OK, OK. The neighbors are gonna call the police!” I tried pulling her back inside, but she stood her ground, and kept on yelling. 

“I’m not high!” 

What was she then, nuts? I was high and I knew she was high. Damn, I’m not giving her anymore of my marijuana brownies. I yanked her back in. 

I think it must have been the fact that we were all marinating in our own soup, when we agreed to have my mother take the pictures of the party. It was so laughable and we were all so utterly stoned. 

The first mistake was sending her down the front stairs alone. I lived in the birdcage building on Ridge Avenue. The building got its name from all the wrought iron stairs and railings that twisted around the many front catwalks. It always reminded me of a motel, and I felt at home. It looked like an oversized birdcage.

We sent her down to the front side walk, which was a little tricky to get to, I admit. We were hoping for pictures of all the birthday party attendees wrapped around and hanging off the railings. It took her a very long time to hit bottom. She kept stopping and yelling “Am I there yet?” 

“Just keep on going, Mom,” 

“But am I there yet?” 

“Keep on going, Mom!” 

We were all howling by the time she had made her way to the pavement.  

All we got back from those pictures were the sky and my mom’s thumb. She kept her thumb over the shutter as she snapped a picture of the sky. The only record I have from that party are photos of my mom’s thumb. 

The rest of the party she told everyone she wasn’t high, over and over and over again. But she was. 

She’s gone now. That party’s over. And the pot didn’t kill her. She had made me a promise and said she would stick around. But she lied. And you know what? I’m still pissed off about that. 

There were many secrets my mother knew about me. But she didn’t love me less, she loved me more. 

There are many secrets that I know about my mother. And I miss her every day. 

I don't believe in death. I choose to deny it. 

When my sister came to my front door, I could tell by the expression on her face, my mother had died. She hadn't been sick. She just died. My crazy as a loon, colorful mother was dead, is dead.   

But I don't believe in death!  I believe in beauty and laughter, absurdity and misconception. 

But death? I deny! 

So where is my mother? That's a question I ponder. Did she go up in a puff of smoke? I don't see her. I can't touch her. I can't laugh with her. Or make her laugh, or hear her laughing. 

Where is she?

Where is my mother? 

The only thing I know for sure is that she’s not here. I remember her. She is locked inside me. But she's not here. 

To hell with all theories and beliefs. And those words meant to soothe. I know them all. I've said them all. I’ve believed them all. But the real truth is, I can’t see my mother. I can't make her laugh or piss her off. I can't hug her or smell her or kiss her cheek. 

Death, has robbed me of too much and too many.  

I don't believe in death. I choose to deny it. 

So where is my mother?