I laid in my bed, listening to my father’s hacking cough in the room down the hall. I had heard the dangers of smoking, but my nine year old mind could not comprehend that my superhero, my rolemodel, my father, could be affected by such poisons. The coughing grew louder and more violent. I turned on my side to face away from the horrendous noise, as if hiding from it would make it cease, but of course it did nothing. I laid helpless, desperately grasping at sleep to rescue me from my dark realization. This world is a cruel one, to let a nine year old realize that her father is dying.

I sat on the porch later that spring, listening to the raspy voice of my father and watching the smoke curl up from the lit poison in his right hand. “Don’t ever get caught up in this” he gestured toward the cigarette. I nodded. “Promise me,” he said, and I did; I promised I never would and I meant it. I saw what it did to him and I wanted no part of that.

    “Why don’t you just quit?” My innocence made him chuckle, but the small smile on his face was short-lived and full of sadness. His eyes fell to the sidewalk in remorse.
   

“Maybe one day,” he half-whispered as he lit another.