“A house is a home when it’s filled with love,” Aunt Camellia said. “Who wants to watch a British love story tonight? I do. Would you like a biscuit, Evie?”

“A greenhouse is structurally different from a home,” Aunt Iris said. “There are plumbing and electrical contrasts. The insulation and flooring are at opposite ends of the construction spectrum. Plus, we don’t have that many plants. Let’s not exaggerate, Evie. Be practical.”

“But why are you growing pot?” I said. “You don’t smoke pot.”

“Oh, my, no,” my mother said, but she glanced away. “I’m a lady.”

“Never,” Aunt Camellia said, but she found a sudden interest in my fluttering rose curtains. “I can’t have pot interfering with my glow.”

“Pot is an herb,” Aunt Iris said. “Let me tell you about how Indians used herbs.”

“You’re kidding,” I said. “This is how you’re going to answer my question? You’re all smoking pot now? In your seventies, you’ve decided to start?”

My mother sang a few notes of a love song. Aunt Camellia joined in. I knew the song. It was from a romance movie made in the fifties. Aunt Iris spread her arms out as if she were directing them.

“But there are a number of plants out there,” I said. “You couldn’t possibly smoke all that.”

“We’re florists,” my mother said. “We like flowers.”

“Marijuana is not a flower,” I said. “It does not go in your bouquets, but nice try, Mom. Are you selling it? And, if so, to who?”

“It’s to whom,” Aunt Iris said. “It’s important to be grammatically correct, Evie.”

“I like grammar,” Aunt Camellia said. “It helps a person get her innermost thoughts out correctly so she can clearly express her emotions.”

“Me too,” my mother said. “Especially semicolons. Most people don’t know how to use them.”

“I do,” Aunt Iris said. “They’re precise, that’s why I like them.”

“Who is buying pot from you?” I put my hand on Sundance’s head. Surely he was behind me in this?

My mother sighed, so impatient. “People who are hurting.”

Aunt Camellia tapped her blue rose teacup with a spoon. “People who are ill.”

“Or dying,” Aunt Iris said. “Isn’t it better for all of us to die stoned than to die sober? It’s a much gentler way to spend your dying time.”

“I want to be high as a kite when I die,” Aunt Camellia said, her face ecstatic at the thought. “High. As. A. Kite. Flying through the heavens, dipping into the clouds, rolling over rainbows.”

“Sadie Almeter had cancer. She was in so much pain. We gave her enough joints to smoke all day until she passed,” Aunt Iris said. “She was ninety years old and said she wished she’d discovered it earlier. What did she call it, Camellia?”