It's funny that I feel the need to clean out my glass before leaving. Makes perfect practical sense; the thing is disgusting. Flecks of char spill out as I rinse and rerinse, pumping in soap and shaking and soaking. The color of the swab paper towel is no prettier.

But it's more. It's a ritual, a ceremonial cleansing. A way of looking myself in the mirror and saying, "Hm, maybe I oughta cut back." A skeptical nod in the mirror. "Or at least give my lungs a more frequent dustoff." Agreed. With that promise in the books, I can shake out a few more black flecks and swab out some more yellow stain.

Then come the q-tips. Collectors. Squeezing out the toke-hole laden with nasty treasures, and I hear echoes of suck-throughs and think: good thing the water was there to protect me.

Finally satisfied, fingers pruney, glass shining, no more ash, I towel it off and tuck it away, drawstring tight. Wrapped up and ready like a present.




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