I was aware that my father smoked cigarettes. Actually, he rolled his own. I think he saw it in a movie Western and thought it was cool, manly, and decided to take it up as a practice.
So he bought the tobacco, the papers and pretended he was the Marlboro Man.
He smoked continually. After the passing of time, he mainly smoked so he could keep from coughing. Yes–the absence of the smoke filling his lungs was such a shock to his system that he desperately needed to inhale the tobacco to make him feel normal again. For every morning in our home began with a coughing fit, lasting about twenty minutes.
I knew it was over when the smell of cigarette came floating through the house and I arose from my bed, and walked to stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, around the little speckles of my papa’s spittle.
I was the son of a smoker who decided never to smoke.
I was the son of a mother who spent a lot of time bitching, only driving her husband to more rolling and lighting.
Smoking is a vice.
Chain smoking is committing suicide–one drag at a time.