Category : Diary/Journal

Sub Category : N/A

Sam, I remember this sweet little kid, how he jumped on Grandpa's legs to turn off his cigar and stealing his box of cigars, every day since he was 5 " Don't smoke Papa" he repeated every time taking his cigar away and running around everyone worried he would burn himself with it or that he would try to smoke it but he always ended throwing it away, day after day the little Sam throwing away Papa's cigars, year after year repeating the same phrase "Don't smoke Papa, don't smoke."
The little Sam who is not so little now just sitting in the middle of the night with a cigar burning between his almost skeletal fingers wonders where did the phrase go, where did the cigar started going to his mouth instead of the trash can, where did he started saving all those little boxes for later.
There is not a memory of a start, there is not a first cigar, or a first day, when he realized more than a dozen cigars were burned between his fingers, more than a million chemicals had invaded his lungs.
There is not a start or a first day, there is just a lost phrase that endured through so many years just to get lost in brief seconds. "Don't smoke Papa, don't smoke" echoes in lost memories, between dark halls that lead to rooms full of light, all lost in a past ocean, a wide, dark, deep ocean of lighting memories.
" Don't smoke Papa, don't smoke"
The most repeated phrase on the memories of a little not so little smoker.