Smoke
I wrote this about a month ago. Jordan hasn’t smoked in nearly a month and a half.
Last night the moon was full and it shone through the slats in my girlfriend’s window. I was laying beside her in her bed and I watched the cold light turn her tears into bright, sharp crystals on her cheeks. Thirteen days ago Jordan quit smoking.
Quitting smoking is the most Herculean endeavor some people ever undertake. I know; I smoked for more than 10 years before stopping nearly 2 1/2 ago. I want to tell you that it’s harder for some folks than for others. For me, it was a blur. I remember being mildly irritated and that the habitual part of it was stronger than the physical part of it.
But for Jordan it goes deeper. On Christmas Eve–this Christmas it will be 6 years ago–lung cancer killed Jordan’s father, Carlton Tadlock. Today, her reluctant-smoker mother, suffers from chronic bronchitis. Christine routinely flees the dinner table to the bathroom in a fit of coughing. Every cough is a stabbing reminder of her father’s suffering, an echo of his own coughs years ago.
So for Jordan, it’s personal. It’s deep. It’s a cruel chore.
And I’m so proud of her.
