XXX
A bitterly cold day. Five degrees outside and the air is completely still. Not a cloud in the sky and everything was silent. I sat and smoked most of a pack of cigarettes that morning. I would always come out and brush the freshly fallen snow off of a spot on the porch next to the pillar and sit there. Or I would just pace back and forth, looking down at how my boots or moccasins would pack the snow down into neat little patterns. I was exhausted and an emotional wreck that morning; all that I wanted to do was sit and be a lump. I would smoke at least half a pack each day. That day was probably closer to a pack-and-a-half. It’s getting cold like that again, I can feel it in my left knee when I’m outside. The cold makes me miss smoking. I haven’t had one in about six months and I don’t plan on having another one. Not ever. But the feeling that is there, the want. That’s something that never really goes away.
