One of my most salient memories from childhood was my mother smoking her small, curvy, pink glass pipe - its exotic mystical form, the slow way she brought it to her lips and inhaled, then closed her eyes and exhaled, moving the pipe away from her face toward her leg; but most of all, I remember the way the smoke traveled slowly to me, like a charmed snake, and entered my nostrils like a barbecue of sweet grass. It was the most fascinating of moments, so much so because it was my motherās secret. 18 years I lived there, and she never knew of those 14 I saw her smoking out her window, eyes squinting toward the future.
I do not know if my father knew of her magic pipe or of her mental escapes, but he never mentioned it and his behavior toward her never changed directly before or after these excursions. I always felt she hid herself from me more than my father, but not completely. She always returned to us after not too long, and with a deep peace in her pleasant eyes, and a soft genuine smile on her face. I was more curious about that pipe than I was about Santa Claus, God, the tooth fairy, and Jell-O put together. I never once dared take it, or try it. I canāt possibly tell you why, I certainly had both the desire and the personality to do attempt such a risk. I think perhaps I was superstitious about the ritual, and gravely feared a sort of bad karma about the whole thing.
On the eve of my 18th birthday, I went to a party put together in my honor at the apartment of the first of my friends to move out on her own. I walked into a room full of college freshman and scattered high school seniors standing next to a few others who were dancing next to a couch that sat three guys and one girl passing a long, multi-colored, exotic pipe. As each exhaled, the smoke moved toward me and entered my nostrils. My eyes widened in excitement and terror. My mouth opened and I stared stunned at the four on the couch whose eyes were half-closed in placid humor, their head bobbing slightly to the music, their arms slowly mimicking the waves in the beat. The girl noticed my shocked expression and said, āHey man, sorry to freak you out. Is it okay if we smoke here?ā I nodded without changing my facial expression. And then the one to her right said the words I was so fearful and excited to hear, āYou want?ā One million thoughts ran through my mind at once and I believe I actually shook in anticipation. I walked over to them like a floating zombie and sat between the two without thinking or caring whether I fit. I paused to look at the pipe they handed to me, feeling its smooth hard surface on my fingers. Instantly, I imagined being my mother and saw her hands hold the pipe so perfectly and held it to my mouth. I lit the pipe and inhaled deeply. The taste was as sweet as Iād imagine, with its honey grass barbeque taste. I closed my eyes and exhaled long and slowly. I opened my eyes again and held my breath to feel whatever difference lay in store for me. So far, nothing had changed. I repeated the ritualistic smoking a number of more times before the girl on the couch asked for the pipe back. I handed it over, never taking my eyes off of the glass wonder, and stood up and went to go find my friend. I needed to thank her for the birthday party.
I found that night what it was that my mother sought all those years. I found a sense of peace that came in silencing the world around me and amplified my inner voice. I found that my mother and I had something intimate in common: we liked shutting out the world and listening to our own thoughts. Soon after this first encounter, I had brought the ritual to my own dormitory room, where it was expanded upon with the latest in fabric softener and toilet roll tube technology. It was often offered to me in social occasions, but it always seemed blasphemous. It wasnāt social at all; in fact, it was a direct response to the constant social noise. After that party, I only smoked it alone, out the window, with my eyes on the future.
thanks for enjoying it. i love posting my writing anonymously. takes the edge off 