And they went to go check on Barto, who lived five miles east in the old wood, because he lived alone, and because he made the best genghar. And of course Barto was dead, the old man, dead on the toilet and slumped over with a pipe in his mouth. So they buried him and had a little funeral for him right there and they found the last of the genghar in the cellar and that was when it really landed that this was it, the last of Barto’s blue leaf they would ever have. And because it was the last of it, and because how would they ever decide how to share it, they said hey let’s smoke it all at once. One night. All of the genghar.
And so they tore down the soggy barn in the south fields they had always been meaning to tear down and they stacked all of the wood into a giant bonfire they lit at sunset. And they passed around spears with whole chickens on the ends of them, punched with garlic and herbs, to hold over the fire for roasting. Corncobs to throw in and fish out. Long links of salami strung up across poles.
And once the fire became coals they each took a handful of the genghar from out of the giant sack and each one took their turn to dump it over the red heat almost as if these were the ashes of Barto himself. Goodbye Barto, said everyone with a blue-dyed hand as the powdered stuff wafted up into a friendly silver cloud. See ya Barto as they took off their shirts and coats to whoosh the good smoke around in a heavy cloud that they gathered up in their nostrils.
And the ones who felt it slow helped the ones who went down fast, placing heads on pillows and tucking legs together, and everyone found a spot on the ground to lie down where they would feel the great feeling, the lifting and drifting all together like one spirit with a thousand bodies that all feel the same thing, and knowing that no matter where the genghar takes them they’ll feel the good of it, all of it, here together feeling how good it feels as they know it will and always has and for the last time forever and forever.
And when Roman is the first to wake up in the morning, he goes to wash his face and look out over the orange red valley and he sees everyone lying face down or face up in the dirt, and he laughs the great Roman laugh that wakes up everyone. So they all wake up laughing too, all of them. Oh good saint Barto, gone. The last sandy-mouth morning. Toppled bench and mug. Grooves in the ground where our bodies dug into the dirt. The last coals still dying and earth you can reach down and pick up in a fist.
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