my mother

I was looking through some of my older writings and this is what I came across.

10/26/2006
My mother sat outside on her mother's porch. In the dark. In the night. Smoking a cigarette. Then another. Then another. Smoking staring in the sky.

I sat next to her to smell the leather from her jacket, the cheap make-up on her face, and the cigarette in her hand. I took it all in. Who knew I would be setting my self up for second hand lung cancer or a lifetime of smoking cigarette's.

I sat next to her to see the smoke float from her hand and her mouth and her noise. It looked like hand writing. The thoughts from her mind hand written with her exhaled smoke. Then disappeared in the air. Much like everything else she did or said. They just went away. I never did get those shinny tap shoes.

I sat next her. I wasn't noticed.

I sit in my patio. In the night. In the dark. smoking my cigarette. Just like my mother did. I don't smell like leather or make-up. And I couldn't bare for my daughter to sit next to smoke, being hypnotized by my handwriting. Being unnoticed.

Yet, still I sit alone in the night in the dark. smoking like my mother did. Still watching the handwriting disappear in the sky.