My mother sent me eight joints for Xmas.

I smoked the first alone, alone with the letter she’d sent me.

I smoked the second with my lover.

The third I smoked with friends, whom I’d invited over for nachos.

The fourth I smoked alone again, quiet in a room by myself.

The fifth we smoked on Christmas morning, when we first got up. 

The sixth we smoked on Christmas evening, when we’d gotten home from dinner.

The seventh we smoked coming up on acid.

The eighth we smoked coming down from acid.

And as the last little bits of paper smouldered against my fingertips, evaporating into ash and smoke and littler bits of nothing, I thought well of my mother, who sent me such a kind and thoughtful gift.

She never got me anything for Xmas, growing up.
Never got a gift until I left the house.
Not that I mind; I like where we’re at now.