I take a hard seat on a wooden bench just outside the front door, a cup for the day's first customer in my right hand, an unlit cigarette in my left. I don't know what time it is exactly but it's evidently a minute or two past whenever most coffee shops open. While a quick glance at my watch could settle the matter, I can't muster the energy. A dozen blocks behind me is the hospital, my wife and our newborn baby. A dozen blocks in front is our two-year-old, at home, waiting with the sitter. I do nothing for about four seconds - just sit there - holding my coffee and my smoke with my mouth no doubt hanging open just enough, my eyelids the perfect amount of heavy, to paint the picture of a man going on no sleep. When my hard-earned four seconds of rest have passed I proceed to spring into action and light the cigarette in a deliberate, almost ceremonial fashion, one strange to anyone who may have been watching this, up until now, lethargic man from across the street. I take a drag and allow my back to find the bench behind me. . .
I am the father of two little girls. More than anything else that's what I am. In terms of what I do and how I do it, although I may not even be conscious of it while I do it, it's done largely for the little girls. Goals, aspirations, not to mention the inevitable twists and turns that are life, remain, but it's safe to say whatever can be dubbed my legacy is set with these little girls. And today that's a notion that's more fortunate than tragic.
So I am blessed. The last cigarette tastes good and for that I am blessed as well. She had to know. Coming home from work making sure the pack was shoved deep inside the coat pocket, always conscious of the smell on the nights I dared a kiss hello. She knew and she held her tongue - perhaps waiting for the perfect moment of accusation, or perhaps resigning to her husband's supposedly secret vice. Likely the former, but nevertheless I got to hand it to her. She held her tongue because I am a good father, a good husband. Because that's what we do. We hold our tongues. And today that's a notion more fortunate than tragic.
So I am lucky. And this last cigarette tastes fantastic and for that I am lucky as well. For what is a final smoke if not one of whole satisfaction - from suck to blow. Shit. I could have been hit by a car any one of a number of times, from the day long ago when I first dared crossing a street, to the walk from the hospital to this very bench where I've crossed twelve streets if I've crossed one. The cars have all spared me. Death has spared me and led me to this day, this day where I celebrate my little girls with this last cigarette.
I wipe tired tears from my face and stand up. I stretch my neck, my back, close my eyes to the sun and force myself to fight the sleep and open them again. A final look at the smoldering butt in my hand before I let it fall to the sidewalk and kill it with the bottom of my shoe. I debate leaving the rest of the pack on the bench where someone else can claim it but choose the finality that is the gesture of flipping $5 worth of nicotine into the trash can on the corner. As I resume my journey home to tell my daughter that she's a big sister my lungs compensate for the sudden jolt back into action and I can't help but notice that my breaths already feel bigger, cleaner. They puff my chest as I cross the street and I text my wife that I love her and that we are making it on our own.
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