the warm smoke of cigarettes

Noah Kurzenberger Grade 8

Every night was the same.

At 5 o’clock sharp, she’d step out on the patio. The door was closed gently, and I could see a blurred image through the battered glass. It would take a couple minutes before she stepped inside again, the same monotone look on her face every time.

I didn’t notice at frst. It took a few days before I smelled the lingering smoke as she walked through the home, pacing from the kitchen to the den. When she came close, a faint, smoggy sigh escaped through her smile.

“I’m okay,” she’d assure me. “I just need a breath of fresh air. On warm days, she’d go when the sun began to set. I could almost see the colors of the sky bounce of her skin, pinks of oranges and yellows in blues. I’d peer through the glass, waiting like an attention-starved puppy for her return. Minutes would pass, but it seemed like hours in my head. At times, I had a short fuse for her evening rituals.

“Lune,” I’d say. “It’s time for you to come inside.”

The smokey scent on her cardigan only strengthened with time. I grew worried, biting my nails when the door shut.

“Don’t worry about me,” she’d plead. “I’m doing just fne.”

I knew it was a lie. If I pressed my ear to the wall, I could hear mufed sobs escaping from the other side. The bags under her eyes grew darker with each evening, her fgure now frail. How could she be doing just fne? It bafed me every time.

On that fateful day, I followed her outside. She seemed startled when her gaze met mine, finching like I was a stranger. Her eyes were duller than the night sky, looking lifeless in the porch light.

I tried to speak, but no words came out. I tried to move, but my body did not comply. All at once she began to fall, her soft, brown hair blanketing the foor. Her eyes slowly shut, mine quickly following. As the darkness took over, I knew what had been done.

I lost her; and I had lost myself too.

Lynx

Chalk illustration

Grade 5