Smoke
Posted at 12:01 PM

Every morning he rouses himself from slumber to light a cigarette in the porch. He’s probably contemplating about his past errors, present frustrations, future plans, who knows. All I know is that it has been like this since time immemorial. Crisp morning air, the crack of a lighter, the smooth swoosh of smoke emanating from parched, dry lips. Yes, it has always been like that. I always wondered what dad wakes up too early in the morning for. It’s still a mystery to me.

Twilight. The freezing temperature tugs at my mollified state. I was awake, staring at a blank ceiling, contemplating about my pointless reveries, thinking about him, then remembering the smooth smoke which swooshed like a graceful dancer from dad’s lips. And then I knew.
Crisp morning air, the crack of a lighter, the smooth swoosh of smoke emanating from parched, dry lips. It’s all a blanket of comfort, for a moment where you are alone – that single moment of quietude where you feel alive again.