Smothered Cigarette

Kelli Lage

Jean’s gravestone reads 1944-2014. At a time, she didn’t think she’d make it long past stumbling home from the bar, drenched in smoke, propping up her husband. After working in factories and grocery stores, she thought it was too late for dreams. That changed in winter of ‘95. Frost swole with news of a granddaughter. Booze bled down the sink, and she choked out cigarettes. Vices be damned, her lungs wouldn’t give out before she saw her granddaughter grow up. She’d share joy in made-up holidays, all celebrations ending in cake. My grandmother loved me for eighteen years.