It has been one month today since I smoked tobacco. I've struggled with that addiction off and on (mostly on) since I was14 yours old.
I had two connections for my drug of choice: Melanie, my sister, who used cigarettes as payment for babysitting services and that one woman--with the large beehive-shaped blonde wig who worked at that one particular gas station in Preston Idaho. I knew she would just take my .99 cents, toss a pack of cigs in the car and send me on my way with a "Shhhhh....." and a boney pointer-finger with extraordinarily long nails to her scarlet painted lips.
The yellow stains on her fingers suggested that she too was a smoker. I wish I knew how old she was when she started smoking. I'd love to hear stories of her first encounters with a cigarette: did she love it instantly, did it make her sick, was she raised in a culture where smoking was the norm or did she have to hide if from her parents the way I did.
I wonder how she is today. Is she still alive or did she smoke up to the day she died? Regardless, I hope had a long and fulfilling life, and, whether she quit smoking or not, I hope she breathed in laughter, love and joy.
