Familial Affliction

By Sydney Worrell

During Bossier meetings, we often take time to be creative through free writing activities. A few weeks ago we were given the prompt of sharing our first memory or experience with cigarettes. While answering the prompt, I accessed a narrative within myself that I hadn’t before. Here is my response (a bit more fleshed out):

The first time blends among flashes of holding my nose to my sleeve as my aunt lit another. Burrowing myself further into the quilted blanket, I peered earnestly through a break in the fabric, from the cold leather sofa to that strange table by the window. Worlds away she sat, eyes gazing far past the glass. I would count down the minutes. Often I hid in the bathroom—the lemon scented refuge that numbed the child’s fear that for each drag, a day lost. 

My dad rarely mentions his mother, but always took the breath for scary stories of lungs and losses. It must have been disheartening, to see such a strong woman drained by quiet weakness; he was unfamiliar with the female experience. My aunt’s strength seeps from the meaningful words she shares with you. Through a bright hello, a place at her table, and a handful of candy for the road, her care and kindness envelop you, filling the room like her smoke. I never could understand how she managed to love so abundantly without sharing any with herself. 

However, time has pushed me to understand the pain alleviated at the table by the window. Woes unspoken released when lips purse reveal themselves in the dim New Jersey dawn. Suddenly, the call to numb new fears takes priority over old whispers. I draw towards the fragrance now, eager to melt among the people cooler than me. Needing to be mixed among their ashes. Desperate to forget for a minute and knock off the days.