Smoke screen

 

I venture into my mother's condo for the first time in a while.

My nephew has occupied it for the summer, which is fine - it lowered our insurance premiums for a bit.  The problem was negotiating each time I wanted to go in to sort through my mother's stuff.  I didn't strictly have to, but everyone needs privacy.

With his departure, I can now drop in when the opportunity arises.  This first time, I limit myself to watering the plants.  

In my mother's tiny greenhouse on the balcony, I discover fifteen joint stubs in a tin.  I don't think this has anything to do with my nephew; I'm pretty damn sure this is his mother.

Last February, I caught Double Leo Sister lounging in a deck chair on the balcony, and firing up.

I explained to her at that time - gently, I think - that condo bylaws, pretty well across the province, prohibit smoking anywhere on the property, and that cannabis consumption, even gummies, is not allowed, period.  It's to do with insurance and property values, I think.

Double Leo Sister hasn't lived in a condo for seven years, and cheerfully told me she was unaware of the regulation.  Fair enough.  I didn't say anything about my bewilderment that someone who has lifelong issues with asthma - to the point of steroid treatment - would subject her lungs to smoke of any kind.  It was the eve of my mother's memorial service, and my sister is, after all, a Double Leo.  I'm not crazy.

I just hope my mother's neighbours don't bring it up.  What do I tell them?  That I've told my sister about the bylaw, and that she doesn't care?  She doesn't live here, after all.

I drowned out my rage and resignation with music in my earbuds, which mitigates the growing emptiness of my mother's home, as things vanish, bit by bit and piece by piece.  As she did in her final months.