PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

When I am asked to describe a significant story about my relatives, especially my grandfathers, I have such a hard time remembering something that really made an impact in my life. For example, I tend to appreciate experiences and actions over material stuff. If you stop a minute and think about it, an object can recall you into a specific moment of time. However actions often speak louder. I mean really, actions define people, their mood, behavior, conduct and almost every other aspect in their life. And it was my grandmother who performed just a single action, smoking. My dad always wanted to have a girl, and it sounds a little risky, but they decided to give love another try when my mom was 37 years old. 9 months after, I was born, and I am sorry father if my phenotypic gender was not what you expected. But well, let’s go to the point, my parents were not new to parenthood (since my brother is 7 years older than me), but they were a busy couple. My dad was working and my mother spent all her time trying to get my brother to study so he could became the best of his class. This all sums up into one phrase: I spend some considerable time with my grandmother. I was a child, maybe 6 years or younger, I have forgotten almost everything but that smell. It was a particular smell, the kind of scent that you can only find in one place. For example, if you want to smell gasoline you go to a gas station, if you for some reason consider yourself a passive smoker, well you might have wanted to go to my grandmother house. And I think that those Red Marlboro cigarettes have a special symbolism in my life. Even though I did not have the chance to actually see the 20 cigarettes Red Marlboro pack, I knew it was there. The cigarettes were hidden from sight, they were probably buried in a drawer with a bunch of socks and shirts, or maybe they were placed among the many canned foods that my grandma used to cook. These cigarettes were hidden from sight but my other senses could perceive them. Every time I entered my grandmother’s house, it was a different, strange sensation. After my grandfather died, the house entered a state of general decay. The doors creak, the furniture was covered with a layer of ash and the atmosphere was gloriously contaminated with that CO (carbon monoxide), an aphrodisiac gas in what I like to call, the smoker paradise.  One sunny day, when we were hanging in the yard, my grandma sitting on a bucket as I was innocently playing with a ball said to me :“I really wish I could be your age again” while she gave a last smoke to her cigarette and then proceeded to light another one. I was until that moment when I realized that she loved cigarettes as much as she loved life.