My son would come see me. He didn’t know about lung cancer, why I couldn’t come home to read stories anymore. He rubbed my head, bald from metastasis. We sang songs beneath blooming bougainvillea, strewn across the grass I smoked that killed me. He visits every other morning after breakfast. He stays with me for a few hours until his mother peels him out of my fingers. He smells like eggs and bacon. They may say that marijuana does not kill people, but it does, damn it, or maybe it was the crack? Horses were not meant to live forever.