Poetry Wednesday: Smoke
Smoke It was everywhere in my childhood: in restaurants, on buses or planes. The teacher's lounge looked like London under fog. My grandmother never stopped smoking, and walking in her house was like diving in a dark pond. Adults were dimly lit: they carried matches in their pockets as if they might need fire to see. Cigarette machines inhaled quarters and exhaled rectangles. Women had their own brands, long and thin; one was named Eve and it was meant to be smoked in a garden thick with summer flowers. I'm speaking of moods: an old country store where my grandfather met friends and everyone spoke behind a veil of smoke. (My Uncle Bill preferred fragrant cigars; I can still smell his postal jacket ...) He had time to tell stories because he took breaks and there was something to do with his hands. My mother's bridge club gathered around tables with ashtrays and secrets which are best revealed beside fire. Even the fireplaces a...