My father, mother, and sister are all smokers. I never thought I’d be one. It’s such a pointless and gross habit to fall into.
But I love the smell it leaves on my fingertips. And the aftertaste. I love the warmth of inhaling the smoke into my lungs. I love flicking the ash off of the end. I love hiding the smell from other people with the little bottle of lotion I keep in my purse. I love putting the ash out by rubbing it into the pavement.
Every single motion is so familiar to me, it’s the smell of my father’s hugs and late nights spent on rooftops with my sister. It’s my mother watching me make mud pies on the front porch. It is home.