Why I Love The Smell Of Cigarettes

I remember when I was young
my mother would go to bars
and sell flowers to make extra money
for groceries and presents.
She would be out until late in the night,
and I would lie in my bed and wait.

She was a church legend back in her day,
a top fundraiser,
and a truly God-gifted woman.
Now what is left?
What was left was a woman
using this old “blessing”
to scrape together little money
so we could have food and holidays.

What is left is my hero,
putting up, living with, and loving
her beast of a husband.
Still she has room left in her heart
to care for, and unconditionally love,
all of her children,
not showing a sign until later years
that she was ever affected.

She would come home in the A.M’s
stinking head to toe
with an exotic mixture
of wonderful smokes.
The fumes resided on her vest jacket,
one of my most fond memories
within the realm of scent.

The smell was so curious,
such a pungent combination
of different cigarettes, cigars, and marijuana.
There would be a different dominating smell every night
depending on where she went to sell,
but it would all collect on that vest jacket
and combine into a smell I fell in love with.

The smell meant she was home,
the smell meant the defender,
the hero,
had finally returned.
I could tell her of my day,
I could tell her of all the good and bad,
I could tell her what that bastard
had done not so long earlier.

I feel bad now.
She was tired.
She was slowly wearing thin of this.
Yet she still loves,
still, to this day
none-the-less,
so truly unconditional.

Some things got better,
some got worse.
More things better,
but as happy as I am
that she doesn’t need
to sell flowers anymore
to make ends meet,
I miss that smoke-smothered jacket.