Smokey by Ian Mason-Smolka
There he sat,
shielded by the thick blanket of cigarette smoke rising like the steam from Grandma’s tea kettle.
Grabbing the Old Granddad
he uttered in his smoke-ridden tone, “I want you to bury me with this,”
the bourbon scent is consuming the air between us.
I laughed, not seeing the day’s rapid approach.
He enlisted at fourteen.
He fought in Korea.
“You will outlive us all,” I reminded, eyes darting from wall to wall.
Pop wrapped his hand around my forearm,
cooling the room.
Straightened and Statuesque,
“Don’t let me down.”
Originally Published in Welter 2008
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