No, of course not.

They did, however, grudgingly accept my apology.

* * *

That night I put my feet up on my grandfather’s old wooden sea chest. I stared up at the model airplanes my father had made as a kid, then at my pink rose wallpaper that somehow always relaxes me. Sundance climbed on my lap and put his head on my shoulder. He was carrying his friend Lizard in his mouth.

My aunts and my mother are growing and selling pot.

They are all in their seventies. They have white hair. They lead Christmas sing-alongs in the town square. They include drunken sailor songs and insert words like Santa and Elves and Rudolph in certain places to make them more Christmassy. So even the young kids sing loudly with their parents about “Santa sluggin’ it down over yonder with his Irish lasses . . . Rudolph and the gang, why they had too much whiskey, one fell over the boat . . . Mrs. Claus, Mrs. Claus, let down your petticoats . . .”

They drink too much sometimes and dance in public. They insist that everyone get a costume and walk in the Halloween parade.

But I never thought I would say that sentence: My aunts and my mother are growing and selling pot.

I never thought I would think it.

Mars knocked down another stack of books. He meowed, I sighed. The yellow rose curtains fluttered.

“Let’s go to bed,” I said. And three dogs, four cats, and a stuffed green lizard, and I trudged up the stairs.

* * *

On Sunday I took Sundance, Butch, and Cassidy on a walk downtown. They love to go downtown. There are lots of other dogs on leashes with their owners, and they love to say hello and chat. I wanted to check in at the bookstore to make sure everything was going well, so I looped their leashes around a lamppost while I went in and they socialized.

After I determined that the bookstore, shockingly enough, was functioning fine and dandy without me, I bought a two-scoop chocolate fudge/peppermint ice-cream cone for its nutritional value. Ice cream is made of milk, and milk is one of the four food groups. The ice-cream parlor is owned by my friend Samson and his husband, Terri. Samson and I went to school together, and we used to play dress-up with my mom’s and aunts’ clothes, so he always gives me an extra helping.

“My sister and I heard you’re magic.”

I peered down at two girls. One was brown haired, one curly strawberry blonde. The girls’ names were Kimberly and Kaitlyn, and they were eight and six years old. I was holding three leashes. My dogs were trying to make a run for it, so I had to hold on tight. In my other hand I was trying not to drop my healthy ice-cream lunch.

“I’m not magic.” I was magical enough to know what they were talking about, though.