FIRST THINGS FIRST

How’s everybody’s pandemic going? In my house today it was Unscrew the Drain Cover and Fish Out Two Long, Wet Clumps of Hair So That the Tub Will Drain Properly and Everyone Can Shower Without Gray Water Rising to Their Ankles Day. A quarterly event, it’s a mild but emotional celebration, capped off with a ritual cleansing.

OLD GRANNY KENNEDY’S HANGOVER CURE

Last year at this time I wasn’t drinking much, if at all, as I remember, and I was meditating a lot — they’re two activities that make no sense together — you really need to commit to one or the other. But as the pandemic took over I gave up the healthy practice that helped me sleep and made me feel more grounded and whole, and instead chose the fun, expensive drinky thing that occasionally left me feeling like plastic death the morning after.

I had a long-distance date/prosecco-red wine party over FaceTime Christmas Eve, and as a result Christmas morning I lay in bed wondering how I would ever raise my head again, let alone get up and make Jackson the jolly breakfast I’d promised. It was then that a withered old neuron found the strength to load one last bullet and fire into my brain, dislodging the memory of a girl I once knew who, hungover to dry puking hell, was persuaded to take a hit of weed and ten minutes later she was on her feet and ready for tacos.

I had no joint or bong on which to hit, but I had a dusty bottle of CBD, and even in my compromised state I was sure of one thing: CBD had weed in it. I found the bottle, squeezed half a dropperful under my tongue, closed my eyes and apologized to God, and soon I was scrambling eggs and yakking with my sister-in-law on the phone.

I don’t know why I have never seen CBD promoted as the miracle hangover cure it so clearly and God-givenly is, but I can guess it has something to do with Big Weed not wanting to enable drinkers to drink when they should be exploring Gaia’s superior natural high. Honestly I prefer alcohol to cannabis, I like the predictability and chattiness of a beer or a glass of wine, whereas there are so many goddamned strains of weed, it’s like choosing a mutual fund.

Anyway, I sincerely recommend Milk Barn Farm CBD because it saved Christmas, plus it’s reasonably priced and Heather and Derek ship. And if you don’t like the taste of it you can rub it on the soles of your feet and visualize how you’re going to flourish in the gleeful, velvety post-Covid renaissance we all most assuredly deserve.

TEARS DRY ON THEIR OWN

After Jack died I sent a bunch of his clothing to Erin to make a quilt. Her shop has become really popular but she trimmed and arranged and backed and sewed each piece into this insanely large, beautifully made quilt, and put the whole quadruple-XL thing in the mail for me. It arrived mid-February and I didn’t want to open it right then because my boyfriend* was visiting, so I put it in Jackson’s room. Jackson waited until I wasn’t around and then spread it out on my bed, looked at it, folded it back up, and then warned me not to take it out again until (a) I could be alone, and (b) I had a full box of tissues.

*which is a thing that’s happening

It was wild to see so much Jack-ness again all at once. The Stuff band t-shirt it took years to find (try googling “stuff” and “t-shirt” = good luck). The yellow gingham shirt he wore on our second trip to Mexico, when I didn’t know I was already two months pregnant. All the Yankees gear, and the shirt from Big Sur, where I still hope to spread his ashes someday. The back pocket of his Levi’s where the shape of his wallet shows through. The human who bought and wore all these clothes suddenly felt alive again, and at the same time I knew that he’d left it all behind because he doesn’t need it anymore.

And yet I often catch myself thinking about Jack like he’s still walking around somewhere out in the world. It’s a trick my mind plays to keep me sane, maybe; to keep me from buckling under all these layers of grief. Like maybe he didn’t die, maybe we just had a terrible breakup and we needed not to talk for a year and a half. I don’t have to feel it so hard if I can imagine he’s still living in our old house, and I should really make time to go drop off his Redwing boots because he’ll be so glad to see them again, and I want him to know I do still care. Even though I have this whole other life now, and in some ways I’m happier than I’ve ever been.