May, 2000

THE LAST CIGARETTE
© By Hazel C. King

 

My daddy stopped smoking
On a Sunday morning in winter.
Standing by the wood heater
That warmed our three small rooms,
He smoked the last cigarette
Down to ashes.

Inhale, exhale. The smoke spiraled up
Into the air, and we all breathed it in
As we waited for Mama
To get our coats and her Bible.

The last cigarette burned down
To Daddy's fingers that had hung
Years of sticks strung with tobacco
Into rented barns. Tobacco fed us
'Til Daddy gave up the farm
And moved us to a better life in town.

Inhale, exhale. A final smoke ring
Circled in the air above our heads.
Daddy opened the heater door
And dropped the last cigarette
Into the fire. Ashes to ashes,
The past went up in smoke
And a shower of sparks.

Then, bundled up against the cold,
We began the walk to church--
Our breath like smoke on the frosty air.

   

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