Smoke in My Eyes

At my law school graduation, I envied – just a little – the graduates whose parents were both alive for the ceremony. But it was okay. I knew my father was smiling.

That’s how I remember my father – seeing his bearded smile through rising cigarette smoke. I must have been six or seven years old when I realized the deadly potential of burning cigarettes in ash trays. My youthful thoughts would darken just a little when I’d see him pat his pockets in search of a smoke.

“It’s not bad for me,” he’d quickly say as he placed the cigarette between his lips and opened a matchbook. At age five, I had enjoyed the little “can you draw?” tests on the back of those matchbooks, but that changed after my first grade teacher set aside half an hour to talk about the dangers of smoking. After that session, I drew NO SMOKING signs and stuck them on the walls of our basement apartment.

My father agreed not to smoke when I was in the room. At least for a few days. Oh, how I cried at the Howard Johnson’s table when he reached for that cigarette pack. “It’s not bad for me,” he said again. I put on the best martyred look I could muster at age eight. At that age, I did not understand the death grip of addiction, and the way in which it robbed my father of his free will.

When I was nine or ten, I saw an anti-smoking ad on TV. “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” by the Platters was the soundtrack of the ad. For days, I loudly sang the song and cried. My mother explained to me that the song wasn’t really about smoking -- but the lyrics spoke to my heart of smoking and sadness. I was a handful.

Over the next two decades, we celebrated time and time again as my father would ceremoniously flush a nearly full cigarette pack down the toilet. Even in high school and college, I cried when I’d accidentally find a new pack stashed in the car or in his workshop. 

As he battled the rapid progression of lung cancer, he insisted that I stay in law school. He didn’t want to interrupt my education. So I stayed in school. The smoke from my own emotional fires was beginning to rise, but I kept going. The day my mother called to tell me he had died, I was in school. I numbly answered, "okay" as my roommate tried to read my expression.

At law school graduation, I waited for them to call my name. I could picture my father, across the table, with the ash tray between us. We smiled at each other as smoke got in our eyes.

[Written for RememberRed prompt: an image of a burning cigarette in an ash tray.]