Time Flies
by Beau Cameron
Grandma had been smoking for as long as I can remember.
She picked up the habit when she was younger and had never been able to give it up. Back in her day, no one was worried about the effect of nicotine and bourbon and what it was doing to your organs. By the time people did start worrying, Grandma was already stuck in her ways.
Some of my fondest memories are on the front porch, sitting on Grandma’s lap while she puffed a cigarette. She’d say “Drugs are bad for you ninito,” as she took a long drag. Her laughter would dissolve into wheezing coughs, so rough and loud that they had to have been painful, but she’d just wave off my concerns with a smile.
Mama always gave her a hard time about it. She’d say, “Mama, each one of those take a year off your life.”
Grandma would laugh. “I don’t have much long left, and I certainly ain’t gonna spend my last days without my smokes. Besides” she’d lean back in her rocking chair, bones creaking in her legs, “if the good Lord is gonna take me, I might as well help him out.”
Her habit never rubbed off on me. When I was real little, I snatched a cigarette from her pack and snuck down to the cove to smoke it. I was coughing and sputtering like a dying engine the whole time, but I was too stubborn to stop. I was barely a teenager the second time I smoked. I stole two packs of Grandma’s cigarettes (she always kept a bunch in her room) to take to a party with a bunch of high school upperclassmen. They let me hang out with them after that, shoving a red solo cup of amber liquid into my hands and insisting I have a smoke. I hated it as much the second time as I did the first.
I admitted to Grandma what I had done afterwards. I had been so scared to tell her, but she had merely chuckled, “If that’s the worst you do ninito, then you’re on the right track.”
Grandma liked to tell me her thoughts as much as she’d tell me stories. I’d be reading a book on the front porch as she rocked in her chair, when she’d say suddenly, “there is nothing more tragic than the story of the sun and moon. No matter how many times they see each other, they will never meet.”
Eventually, I came to expect it, unfazed by her babblings as much as one could be. However, I’ve never forgotten what she said to me one night as I spoke of moving out and college, and how adult-like my child self was.
“Don’t look at the clock Andre. ‘Cause no matter what you do, it’ll keep on ticking, and before you know it, you’ll have wasted your life watching the days pass.”
I didn’t know what to say. So I just nodded, and we lapsed into silence, watching the sun set over the ocean. I, pondering her words, and she, puffing away at her cigarette.
These days, I keep a pack around. I never smoke them, I don’t have the stomach for it, but there’s always a pack on my bedside table, or in my living room, or sometimes in my pocket on days when I’m at my worst. Mom kept Grandma’s ashes, but I feel her presence more when I watch the sunset, or smell the sickly sweet smoke, or roll a cigarette between my fingers.
To this day, I never look at the clock.
She picked up the habit when she was younger and had never been able to give it up. Back in her day, no one was worried about the effect of nicotine and bourbon and what it was doing to your organs. By the time people did start worrying, Grandma was already stuck in her ways.
Some of my fondest memories are on the front porch, sitting on Grandma’s lap while she puffed a cigarette. She’d say “Drugs are bad for you ninito,” as she took a long drag. Her laughter would dissolve into wheezing coughs, so rough and loud that they had to have been painful, but she’d just wave off my concerns with a smile.
Mama always gave her a hard time about it. She’d say, “Mama, each one of those take a year off your life.”
Grandma would laugh. “I don’t have much long left, and I certainly ain’t gonna spend my last days without my smokes. Besides” she’d lean back in her rocking chair, bones creaking in her legs, “if the good Lord is gonna take me, I might as well help him out.”
Her habit never rubbed off on me. When I was real little, I snatched a cigarette from her pack and snuck down to the cove to smoke it. I was coughing and sputtering like a dying engine the whole time, but I was too stubborn to stop. I was barely a teenager the second time I smoked. I stole two packs of Grandma’s cigarettes (she always kept a bunch in her room) to take to a party with a bunch of high school upperclassmen. They let me hang out with them after that, shoving a red solo cup of amber liquid into my hands and insisting I have a smoke. I hated it as much the second time as I did the first.
I admitted to Grandma what I had done afterwards. I had been so scared to tell her, but she had merely chuckled, “If that’s the worst you do ninito, then you’re on the right track.”
Grandma liked to tell me her thoughts as much as she’d tell me stories. I’d be reading a book on the front porch as she rocked in her chair, when she’d say suddenly, “there is nothing more tragic than the story of the sun and moon. No matter how many times they see each other, they will never meet.”
Eventually, I came to expect it, unfazed by her babblings as much as one could be. However, I’ve never forgotten what she said to me one night as I spoke of moving out and college, and how adult-like my child self was.
“Don’t look at the clock Andre. ‘Cause no matter what you do, it’ll keep on ticking, and before you know it, you’ll have wasted your life watching the days pass.”
I didn’t know what to say. So I just nodded, and we lapsed into silence, watching the sun set over the ocean. I, pondering her words, and she, puffing away at her cigarette.
These days, I keep a pack around. I never smoke them, I don’t have the stomach for it, but there’s always a pack on my bedside table, or in my living room, or sometimes in my pocket on days when I’m at my worst. Mom kept Grandma’s ashes, but I feel her presence more when I watch the sunset, or smell the sickly sweet smoke, or roll a cigarette between my fingers.
To this day, I never look at the clock.