Cutting a joint
A sense of stillness comes over Sonia, my partner, while she’s cutting a joint. I haven’t seen her in this state for the longest time, but there she is in our kitchen this morning, doing one of her favourite things, cutting a joint. I like the sight. It takes me back to Sunday visits with Sonia’s parents, where a fat joint was always the highlight of the afternoon.
Without fail, Sonia looked forward to sampling a joint when she visited her folks, and it was her mother, Dolly, who gave her that opportunity. Her mother knew that if she had some joint to spare, to save some for Sonia.
Sonia’s family had a long history with joints. Her mother enjoyed many a good joint over the years. And her father always sang his wife’s praises, especially where joints were concerned. Bill was so connected to Dolly that, after they’d consumed part of a joint, he’d sometimes ask her if he’d had enough, as though she knew more about how his body felt than he did.
On such occasions, Sonia and I eagerly awaited Dolly’s answer. Much to our amusement, she always replied, and her reply was always, “yes” in no uncertain terms. Equally as amusing, upon receiving her answer, Bill would always be satisfied.
Memories are part of our everyday life, and though Sonia can no longer make a beeline to her mother’s kitchenette, she’s pacified, standing over our kitchen bench, wedging away at her own joint of meat. She cooked it in her new air-fryer. She says it’s the bees’ knees.