Hello! Welcome to my world! I plan to write tid bits about my life, musings of my "sitcom worthy" dating life, poetry and short stories to entice you into reading my blog. Happy reading and thanks for dropping by!
Monday, May 16, 2011
Walking into the dimly lit bar that I had agreed to meet a friend, I immediately recognized it. Inhaled it. Felt it. To this day, I cannot stand the smell of cigarette smoke. I detest it. Not because smoking is bad for you or because cigarettes can kill you, no, my dislike for cigarettes and their smell is purely selfish reasons. Because they remind me of my father. I remember being maybe 14 or 15 years old and literally flushing newly bought cigarette packs down the toilet. Or if my father had just lit one up and left it briefly unattended in an ashtray, I would throw it in the sink and turn the faucet on and watched them as they wilted away. Much to the horror of my dad. "What are you doing? Mija! I just bought those!" I remember his anger and how I would just leer at him and tell him it was for his own good. But then there are other memories as to why I loathe the "Cancer stick" Memories of when my parents were still together. How their fighting, the smell of my dad's cigarettes and the scent of tequila permeated our house. Even long after the fighting was done and they had made up, the smoldering ashes remained. Lingering. Dancing their last dance before dying out completely. Years later, when my father finally left for good, I remember how "clean" our house smelled. And my mom stopped drinking. And how I never wanted him to come back because he still smoked and well, it would bring back the smell. Weird what goes through a naive teenager's head. Even now, whenever I do see my father, and I greet him hello, I can smell the cigarettes, I can smell the smoke. And I cringe. From far away, I could hear someone calling my name, "Yvonne? Hellooo?" I open my eyes and see my friend waving his hand in front of me. "Where'd you go? You seemed entranced or something..." Smiling I winked at him, grabbed his hand and led him out the door.
The Red Dress Club -The prompt was to write what comes to mind
from a picture of cigarettes in an ashtray. This was my my memory.