Monday, November 10, 2014

smoke

The smell of cigarettes has always been comforting to her, unless she was pregnant. She wasn't now, so when the beach breeze blew those fumes she found herself suddenly remembering her grandfather. His embrace, given long ago, and uncles with beer breath and tickly beards, and cousins climbing trees and swinging on swings and spilling lemonade on grandma's tile floor. Grandma never seemed to mind, and though she took it for granted when she was a child, her patience seems remarkable now. That dear woman, with her foard of children and grandchildren. Did her skin ever bristle with the noise and the touches? Did she ever want to climb into a bottle and hide for a month? She remembered the cool skin of grandma's arms, the way she smiled as she sat on the dock and watched the little ones play in the water.
“Ew, why does he need to be so close to us with that nasty smoke?” her daughter said, rolling her eyes. Mom watched as the young girl picked up her beach towel and shook it with pointed disgust. She felt an expression come over her own face, one that was once her grandmothers: a thin smile, an acquiescence to the ignorance of youth. She would not bother trying to explain her thoughts to the young one.



She moved her towel away from the smoke and sat near her daughter.


This month I'm participating in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). I am actual a Rebel because I am focusing on several short stories, but my goal is to write 50k in the month of November. This post is just me playing with fiction, warming up my fingers.  I'd love to hear your thoughts.

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