Prickly Beards and Cherry Cigars [steffeny]

I distinctly remember

Driving to grandma’s and writing on my magnetic etch-a-sketch. I proudly showed off the intervention that I had devised for my grandparents. Stop Smoking. It will kill
you. You should stop. I love you.

When I showed my mom she yelled at me and I didn’t understand why. I had worked really hard on that message and besides, mom was the authority on the perils of smoking. Constantly complaining about the uncompromising smell that invades all clothes, skin, and hair. We have to wash everything. Don’t take your nice stuff to grandpa and grandma’s, she warned us, it will be ruined. And don’t get her started on them riding in our car. Smoking is why they don’t come to visit us. Smoking is why they’re grumpy and their health is bad. Smoking is the reason for everything in our relationship. Especially the bad and uncomfortable stuff. They smoke and that’s bad. I heard her tone more than her words. We love grandpa and grandma but they smoke. We feel sad, but we all have to suffer the consequences.

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Grandpa. Stuart Steiner. Stern. Rough around the edges.

His prickly beard pokes me when we hug. He lets me sit in his recliner- the throne – and watch all the classic Christmas shows. Crunch Crunch. He turns the pepper grinder over and over and all over every meal. Every bite. Mom says it’s cuz the smoke made his taste buds broken. But I think he likes things with extra flavor. He’s usually grouchy and doesn’t seem very happy to see me, but then grandma mixes drinks and we play cards. He teaches me to play dice and black jack. To him it’s serious business. Me and Colby have spinning competitions on the old black bar stools. I feel so dizzy I can’t hold my giggles in. They smack into the discolored walls, making a stark contrast against the serious space. Exhilarating exhaustion and warning looks from dad cause me to collapse onto the blue davenport. Davenport. That’s a weird word. What’s a davenport? After a lot of hard thought, I decide that it must be a long, uncomfortable, blue couch bench.

Regaining my strength, I set out to explore the bedroom closets in search of toys or games. Any sort of entertainment will do. I find Simon. Circular, colorful, and mysterious. Pushing the neon, pie shaped buttons, I can’t seem to make it come alive and so I quickly throw it aside. The rubix cube too eludes me. I’m perplexed by the crates full of dirty old baseballs kept in the closet. Huh… Finding nothing of interest, I head back to the deck to check on the adults, hoping to find some measure of excitement. My mom seems bored and annoyed. But dad is strangely happy. His insides seem to be smiling in enjoyment, all the while reaching for something slightly out of grasp. Maybe he’s sad there aren’t any good toys around either.

Me and Colby go back inside to watch another TV show. I feel the tiredness creeping in and all over me. We chase and run around the house but are soon scolded and back to the TV we go. I drop down onto the white and beige speckled carpet. It’s a tinted shade of yellowish gray like most things in the house. Even the couch is prickly. I lay on the carpet and feel its scratches on my face. Breathing in deep, I stare up at the thick glass coffee table from my vantage point underneath and trace the edge with my pointy finger. It’s the shape of a kidney bean and held up by a scary tree branch. Sharp and twisty. On top rests an array of ash trays and the boring brown coffee mugs. My little fingerprints are left behind as proof of my careful and curious investigation. Being in this house feels like a nap all of the time. But no one seems to mind. I want to go outside, to run, to breathe the fresh air. Mom says it’s because of the smoking that we feel bad and tired and why we can’t go play. I think I believed her.

The clock dings. Again and again. Waking me up and reminding me of another hour’s passing. But time seems to stand still in this house. Suddenly aware of my surroundings, I realize that no one is around. I’m all alone. Where is everyone? I know they’re home. They must be home. But they are nowhere to be found. The house seems even more quiet and hollow than before. As I walk down the long hallway toward the back bedroom, I run my hand along the walls, feeling the texture of the familiar film that coats them. I reach the bedroom and the door is shut. I pause long enough to feel the fear sitting in my belly. I take a deep breath and slowly push open the door. Mom and dad are sleeping on the bed. It seems like in this house everyone is tired. Even me. The back room scares me. I only go back there to find my parents or to get dressed for the day. All our clothes are packed in mom’s suit case. We always seem to wear sweats at grandma’s house. Only sweats every day. I’m not really sure why.

Grandma comes out of her room where grandpa is sleeping and takes me into the kitchen. She gives me a cookie or fixes me my favorite, English Muffins. I sit at the bar stool and I can’t even spin. I feel the weight of this sleepy house.

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When I smoke I can smell him again.

It was a beautiful night. We went to the garden. Relaxing, I breathed in the cherry cigar, my first. Semi awkward, semi comfortable. The cool evening air passed easily between us. Later that night I lay in bed. Feelings of confusion well up inside me. Even more than the emotions, I am overwhelmed by a familiar smell. Unable to identify it, I realize that it’s on me. It is me. The smell of smoke from my cherry cigar. And though I’m 23 and safe to make my own decisions, so many thoughts ebb and flow though my mind. Hitting me. Smoking is awful. Horrible. Terrible. But I did it. I liked it. Suddenly I feel a tinge of hurt. I’m afraid. Am I bad now?

Consumed by the aroma, I realize that I smell like them. The smell in my hair. The taste in my mouth. The dry feel of my skin. I lay in bed perplexed, feeling the weight of all the judgments that we once place on their shoulders. The river of realizations continues to flow through me. This is what grandpa smells like. This is what grandma tastes like. A strange happiness spreads through my insides. Finally free simply to say: I like smoking and I like my grandparents. In this one tiny act I understand them so much more. I can’t even explain it. Suddenly I feel close to my grandparents in a way that never happened while they were alive. Bridging years of distant disconnect. Grandpa, I’m sorry. I don’t hate you. I’m sorry for hating you. Grandma, I miss you. I’m sorry for judging you. I wish I would’ve seen, smoked sooner. How could this one thing be so divisive in our family? How could this one thing bring us back together?

Drifting off to sleep I imagine my grandpa’s prickly beard on my scrunched up face and grandma’s delicious molasses cookies spilling out over my little hands. I smile. I love you guys. See you tomorrow night. I’ll meet you on the porch, cherry cigars in hand.