short(er) stories

a tribute

My neighbors, Carol and Chub, often sat outside on summer evenings. Chub would smoke a cigar, taking long drags and periodically rapping the tip of it to shake off the ashes. Billows of smoke wafted to me, smelling like burnt mahogany and sweet water, and my eyes would glaze over every time I caught a whiff. Chub and Carol would sit next to each other, foldable chairs parked outside of the paint-peeled garage and angled towards one another. The barbecue was lit and the air filled with more smells, this time of grilled chicken and smoked ribs.

My family was always invited. It was a privilege--though I didn't know it at the time--to talk with people who had experienced so much. Their hands intertwined with the occasional careless caress and reassuring squeeze, I saw a casual love that made my heart twinge; I longed to see that elsewhere. In Carol's eyes, behind her finger-printed glasses, was an unmistakable and inextinguishable spark. She was lively, intelligent, witty, and kept up with the fast-paced conversation my mom always instigated while regularly upping its intellectual depth. A nine-year-old never fully comprehended what they were discussing, though any kid would understand there was a deep level of communication between them. Chub would periodically interject and add quiet remarks that were much more my pace, so I sat next to him and reveled in whatever my mom and Carol did.

Chub had a knack for making me laugh. He'd switch around words like loli-pop and say poli-lop, or instead of "cookie," it'd be "kee-cook." He made himself laugh so hard that he'd hold on to the armrest of his chair and choke out the last giggles, still puffing from his cigar. Carol mindlessly reached out and rubbed her husband's back until the last of his chuckles subsided. Another reflexive act of love and I felt myself shrink in my seat. I turned to Chub as he offered me a poli-lop, and he made me promise not to eat it until after dinner. I caught his sly wink and tried to match it, forcing another bout of giggles from him.

Time passed, and the summer nights my family would so religiously spend with Chub and Carol continued to lessen. Weeks, months, a year, then years, and somehow I was in seventh grade and seemingly infinitely less eager to joke with folks four times my age. It was almost easy to pretend I had moved on and forgotten that part of my street, but when I saw the lights on at night, and couldn't help but wonder how they were doing. When the weather got warmer, and I didn't smell the barbeque running, I'd shift uneasily in my seat.

Halfway through seventh grade, my mom told me Chub had died. I don't remember how she said it or what I said in reaction; I don't even think--I look at my mother and try to stop thinking. All I remember from his is a collage composed of cigar smoke that smelled like sweetwater, the sound of suppressed chortles, and the quiet hum of a barbeque. There was casual, beautiful, gut-wrenching love.

And then there was Carol. Pointed nose, sharp eyes, smelled like Lentils and parchment. She talked about Chub with a smile while her eyes were focused on some point over my shoulder, thin frame laughing heartily as she retold stories of him to my mom and me. I looked down at her hand and saw Chub's fingers tracing hers.

The food at the funeral tasted like sand. The tables were round, and there were no chairs at them. It felt so wrong that a funeral honoring such a lively person ended up so mournful. When their daughter, Caroline, gave her eulogy, I looked to the side and saw Carol dabbing a cloth under her eyes with a faraway smile.

"Thank you for coming," she said to my mom and me after the ceremony. "It means more than you can imagine."

Months, years, again. They moved out a long while ago, and I'm now in high school. I hear my mom open the door downstairs and go to meet her. She sits on the cushions near the windows and looks at me as I walk through the door, eyebrows raised.

"Carol died today," She says. I rest my hand on the door frame. She keeps her eyes trained on me as if measuring my ration, and I let go of my breath as I grip the door frame harder. Quietly, her mouth opens to say something, then closes it again.

Almost out of instinct, I look at their house. All the lights are off. In the empty driveway, I picture two foldable chairs and an ashtray. The cigar is still smoking, resting on the edge, almost anticipating another drag. I hear Chub laughing and Carol talking over the faint ringing in my ears, and I finally look at my mom. She's waiting for me. I glance at her hands, veiny and hardened from age, and I sit next to her, gulping down the hot pain in my chest. In silence we sit, drinking in the bitter taste of grief.

"I can't remember..." I trail off, and she grabs my hand.

"I can't remember his face," I say, exhaling slowly. My mom composes herself and looks up. In stillness, we sit as if to not disturb any dust that might've settled. In the silence, I remember the faint murmur of intelligent conversation and suppressed laughter.

"That's okay." She whispers.

a/n

hello, I'm alive! I'm a junior. the last time i wrote i was a freshman... oh how times have changed. you've watched me grow! if you're somehow, miraculously, still here then by god you deserve a medal.