SHAVINGS FROM MY HEAD

Smoke gets in your Why’s

When I smoke cigarettes I think of eleventh grade.
I think of reclusive survival, of singed backpacks, of bad reputations and calculated segregation.
I think of two packs a day.

When I smoke cigarettes I think of sixth grade.
I think of discarded attention, of unsupervised rebellion, of adolescent nakedness and turbulent isolation.
I think of one pack a day.

When I smoke cigarettes I think, of my parents--sophisticated adults whose smoky allure I relentlessly craved. I think of ascot ties and tennis rackets, of costume jewelry and coral lipstick, of stunted communication.

When I smoke cigarettes, with each toxic intake, I revisit something I’ve memorized as family. First holding them contained in my lungs, close to my heart. Then, with each timed exhalation, I am reminded they are gone as I release the cloudy formation, watching it dissipate into the vortex.

When I smoke cigarettes, I try to remember; hopeful the orangey-charcoal tip will connect me to my extinguished past---staining my memory with yellowy childish images of contentment.

When I smoke cigarettes, through my lethal filter, I am able to recall smoky reminders of my mother: A black mane atop milky luminescent skin. A poppy red mouth to match the scarlet column elegantly contorted into an S configuration and peppered with rhinestones. Grasping a cigarette holder high into the festive party atmosphere, to gain her attention, I push against her, huddling between charcoal nylon gams. Chanel #5 and tobacco fuse together, offering an aromatic reminder I can never extinguish.
“Would you hold this?” she asks, passing the ebony cigarette holder to her guest. After extracting me from the folds of her party dress, she sends me off to bed and resumes smoking.
Today, the collective combination of scented memories is something even the surgeon general has no authority over.

Nowadays, when I smoke cigarettes, like my mother, I too am a “social smoker”.
At gatherings I make it a point to stand near anyone wearing perfume. While I puff, effortlessly shifting from one party posture to another, I blow my loneliness into the cheery atmosphere.

When I smoke cigarettes, with each poisonous burst, I pray my silent smoke signals of desperation will permeate another abandoned soul; that the attention will bring a smile to my yellowing teeth; the possibility of touch, grab hold of my stained fingertips; the exchange of words, extinguish my torment---forcing my taxed breathing patterns to disappear.

When I smoke cigarettes I want to warn the Surgeon General that my memory sticks will someday be replaced with love, my loneliness gone in a cloud of smoke. But until that happens, for support, I’ll just hold on to my papery cane of memories….. as death becomes me.

Labels: Reminders, Replacements, Smoking