eleven puffs of a cigarette

by 21:28 0 comments
the sixty something year old uncle takes exactly eleven puffs of his cigarette as he sits and inhales the sunset at IHC. His shadow rests a little taller than him, a book resting on his lap, its pages tainted yellow over time and the corners ruffled up. there is music that sits in a little transistor next to him, quiet as if its had its chance to speak. I inhale the cigarette smoke as I sketch his silhouette across the pages of my diary. I sketch him 17 times, once every day. But it’s not enough. It has never been enough. He walks as if his footsteps tell stories that he never could. That he wished he could. There is rhythm in the way he carries the newspaper along with him everywhere he goes, though he never reads it. He’s not read a newspaper in the past three years but he carries one around with him everyday anyway. He calls it poetic justice. I don’t think I can ever understand him. He’s that book I’ve read too many times but every time I read it, it feels different. I guess that’s how it is with people too. Sometimes I wish it wasn’t. Sometimes I wish that there were emotions and feelings allotted to people that they’re supposed to make you feel and they cannot not do that. Sometimes I wish I didn’t feel differently around myself, on days I think I‘m not enough. I never think I’m enough. Nor are my sketches. So I sketch him for the eighteenth time against the sunset today. He takes his final drag of the smoke as he picks up his newspaper, his book and his transistor, walking away leaving nothing but smoke across the sunset behind.

_eleven puffs of a cigarette


Post a Comment