The smell of cigarettes is bittersweet to me. A love-hate relationship if you will.
It is the smell of my grandmothers house when I was little. It still lingers on my stuffed animals I keep in my closet. It is $5 and a pack of m&ms. It is the smell of Spongebob and Jack n' the Box. It is the smell of her cat, long dead now.
The smell hugs my cousin as she walks through the door. The thick smell fills my senses as I sit in the car with her late at night. The windows are down, a cool breeze barely nudging the wall of smoke away. She is watching The Office while complaining of the bad cell reception in my neighborhood. It is 3 a.m.
While the smell comforts me in many ways, it also sends a wave of nausea though my whole body. It is the smell of my mothers ex-boyfriend. The suffocating blanket that constricts my 6 year old lungs. I hold a can of soda under my nose. The thick syrup masking the bitter choking of the cigarette.
It is the smell of my mother. Late at night on the back porch. And me, standing in the kitchen waiting for her to come back inside.
As I walk past a person smoking on the street, I drown in the smell as it brings back memories. Grandma, cousin, mothers ex-boyfriend, and mother.
Some of these people I try to forget.
Others, I cling desperately to remember.
