ashtrayI saw Dad claw his left shoulder and slide to the hardwood floor. Enormous ambulance men simultaneously asked me what happened and shoved me aside.

Since then, I swore I’d never fall into the habit, but being part of Sam’s everything came to include cigarettes. Suddenly they were around the house, in my purse, constantly on my mind.

I’d leave the dinner table to breathe Dad in, an apology in every inhale.

Welcome to Microvember, my take on NaBloPoMo. Each day this month I’ll be posting microfiction, short vignettes, or poetry, accompanied by photography.

Is this piece fact or fiction? The world may never know–and that’s the fun of Microvember. 

9 thoughts on “Smoke

  1. The faint smell of cigarette smoke always takes me back to after-dinner drives with my brother and mom, who were sneaking their cigs away from the disapproving eyes of my grandparents. Windows down and the summer breeze blowing capriciously through the car. Such freedom!

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  2. The smell of cigarettes reminds me of the times my dad would smoke. He wasn’t a chain smoker and he didn’t smoke all the time. There would be years that he didn’t smoke then all of the sudden he would come home with a pack of cigarettes and he’d smoke one, usually just one. A few days later he might smoke another.


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