“That looks like a joint,” I say. “Yup,” she says. It’s been a year since he died, and I haven’t moved a single item on his desk. She needs furniture, so I offer her his desk and chair, along with other items. As I clean the desk, I am not shocked to find the joint, just disappointed. And a little embarrassed. Honestly, who cares these days? It’s illegal in this state, but who’s coming after me for having the butt end of a year-old joint in the house? And why did he feel he had to hide it from me?
Gwenette Gaddis is a southern writer with influences from Tennessee, Indiana, Oregon, Florida, and Kentucky. She’s writing a novel and a collection of short stories.