In the summer of 2009, Andrew and I had been seriously dating for a little over a year. Harborside Health Center was entering its third year of medical cannabis distribution, and Andrew was transitioning from inventory management to overseer of general operations. It was also a family business and Andrew took his job VERY seriously, having left his thespian desires behind in L.A. Patients were counting on him. Local government was counting on him. But the cannabis industry was still new, still suffering through the stigma of over 70 years of federal Prohibition, and Andrew was fighting endless battles—from innovating simple dispensary procedures and protocol that had not yet been invented, to advocating drug reform and navigating dubious tax laws that threatened Harborside’s very existence. It was exciting, important but excruciating work—tedious, challenging and stressful, with long hours and the added perk of possible federal intervention and jail time. He often had nightmares. I thought he was kinda nuts, really. Also, he lived in an industrial area that was close to work and always a bevy of activity, adding to his heightened state of anxiety. Regardless, I marveled at his mental energy in the a.m.; he’s building whole kingdoms in his head before 8am, whereas I can barely open my second eyelid before noon.
Anyway, I wrote this for his 41st birthday…
In the morning.
In the morning,
Just before the sun rises,
And the bread trucks across the street have finished their mid-night deliveries,
And the BART train has resumed its screeching,
And the townsfolk begin their daily ritual,
(Starting with the snooze button,)
And the babies set to crying for their mother’s breast,
And the dogs get to scratching and sighing and staring longingly at the door,
And the roosters—somewhere in town there must be roosters—have started their crowing,
And the mice have retreated to their homes,
He is awake.
“They’re all against me,” he says.
In the morning,
He bolts out of bed, with the vigor of a man half-crazed,
But whole-hearted,
A man whose mind races through business models and the dominance of paradigms not yet subverted—
International politics and social justice; the frailties of economy and ancient wars—
While others are wiping the sleep from their eyes,
He will be dissecting a newscaster’s announcement about healthcare reform;
Trouble in Mumbai;
The latest Amish trend;
Palin…again??
And shouting at the world (while sipping his tea—English Breakfast—dash of cream, at least 10 packets of sugar),
And he’ll be thinking about how it all relates,
To the play he’ll write one day about the lies we tell each other,
And the ones we need to believe,
In order to survive.
“Every hole,” he says.
In the morning,
Of the day before this one,
He awoke from a dream,
That he was going somewhere—flying there, he didn’t know where—and it felt good,
But he didn’t know why, exactly,
And that made him feel strange.
So he rolled over to reach out for the warm body next to him,
Clutching her tight, smelling her hair,
And he slept just a few minutes longer.
In the morning,
In the wee hours—at the break of dawn,
Just before he rises,
And twilight’s last shadows shift and slide along the wall,
There is an anxious calm,
A sort of quiet, tentative anticipation of what the day will bring,
Before the sun breaks through, filling the room with light,
A kind of loud acceptance of the possibilities—
Both good and bad—
And he is up,
Preparing his defenses.
Leave a Reply