...cont

He tells me how he managed to slide the package out of his father’s pocket while he napped on the couch, steal the cigarette and replace the pack without waking the old fart. The trick, he claimed, was timing, “moving on the noisy side of the snore.”

I hear my voice raise in admiration. I’m in awe of his courage. I mentally trace the features of his face...too soon they’ll disappear. The wind whips his sandy brown hair across his forehead. He shakes his head in a vain attempt to remove the strands from his eyes. Using the wind as a comb, he leans his face into the breeze. His eyes squint. Freckles dart into the creases of his nose. He is alive. Mischief sparkles.

I remember the anticipation of smoking that cigarette like it was yesterday. We wrote a secret pact and vowed an oath of silence, thwarting all forms of torture should we ever be questioned about the missing cigarette. Finally we lit it.

Richard took the first drag, after all it was his idea, his father’s cigarettes, and he added, “I’ve got the matches.” He pulled long and hard, just like we practiced. The ember glowed as he sucked the pungent blue smoke deep into his nine-year-old lungs. He proceed to throw up. I never got my puff...the cigarette sizzled under the puddle of vomit.

For a long time I wondered if his sickness started with the puff of smoke. I know better now....

Stoelers' complete entry can be found in our Spring '98 Issue.