for Sara “Moony” Aguilera

Moony tilts her head
away from the lighter’s flame
toward the sunset.
The joint hangs
languid from her lips
as the sun slides
behind the lavender
cotton of a cloud.

I watch as the ember
brightens and grows
with each puckered puff.
The cherry and the sun:
two neon oranges
dueling above the ocean.
The smaller one floats toward me
across the cab of Moony’s Civic,
pinched between her index and thumb
as Lauryn Hill’s “Nothing Even Matters”
plays on the stereo and battles with gusts
of wind blowing in from the open windows.

Here, fool.

I see the warmth from the beach day
teem on Moony’s skin. Its hue,
darker than before. A pink burn
glows beneath the brown.

I pinch the J,
take a puff,
inhale deep and watch
Moony’s hair dance
with the smoke I release.
It swirls golden
in the waning light,
like an angry halo,
an incidental crown.

Fifty miles per hour
on Pacific Coast Highway
makes her body dance.
Her tank top billows
and swells with each gust,
each bounce of bust.

Her voice climbs scales
quivering ahead of its descent
into a pool of blues
while her eyebrows guide the notes,
pulling them from her throat,
a stream of smoky melody
puffed out on the remnants
of her last toke.

At seventeen,
she sings against the pain
of six motherless years.
Her grief has just begun
to allow color into her visage again,
though it remains cloaked in ash.

I wonder how long these clouds
of smoke will swirl around
her reddened eyes,
how long she won’t care
that her car smells like weed
and cigarettes, a hint of vanilla.
Is this the scent of grief?

I remember the smiling families we passed
earlier on the Venice Beach boardwalk
and understand that sometimes a child’s death
pales in comparison to a mother’s.

I contemplate all of this
as we cruise beneath the orange
and fuchsia sky until Moony’s voice
shocks me back to the moment:

Ey. Fool. Can I get that shit back
sometime before I die?

My bad, Moon, I laugh
as I pass her the joint.
She takes a pull,
gives me a wink
and exhales
singing through the smoke.