Marge and I settled our creaky bones into the cheap room for rent without a view. Marge wrinkled her nose. “Smells like cooked cauliflower.”
“Or sweet, sweaty gym socks,” I added.
But it was all we could afford with pills to buy and docs to pay, so we resigned ourselves and made the bed, each arthritic move and raspy breath a chore.
That first night, we dreamt of floating castles. During our next sleep, we walked crystalline beaches. After a week of blissful pain-easing slumber, we befriended the skunky smell and its owner, our landlord and neighbor, Kent the Cannabis King.
Thanks for the morning chuckle. Well done.
Thank you for the note, Patricia!
A friendly little chat about what it means to be poor and old these days with the palliative grace of a marijuana savior next door. Great story. I loved it.
Thank you, Rudolph! Yes, a little “real life” inspiration there…
Yes!
🙂
I loved this!
Thank you, Greta! Appreciate you taking the time to read it. – Brooks
Sounds good to us!
Thanks for the note, Helen!