By Corrie Haldane
When I was a little girl, my mother could smoke a whole cigarette without flicking the ash even once. Swirls of white circled her head like dreams while the smooth white tube dangling between her yellow fingers burned down to a desert-grey shell.
I’d sit on the floor by her feet and watch, smoke-charmed. She said it was her superpower. I believed her.
Now, I hold a smouldering butt up to her thin, wrinkled lips. She sucks weakly, like a sleepy baby at its mother’s breast.
My pale fingers shake, and ash dusts her bedspread like dirty snow at winter’s end.
Lovely movement from then and now. The glamour of smoking ending in the damage of mortal disease. Super title!
Sad reality of addiction. Great title clever.
Sad tale very well told.
Smoked-charmed; wonderful description. As was I when a kid, watching the tendrils float throughout the house, but I never thought about it so artfully.
Such a beautiful, poignant story.
The images created here are so good. The cigarette ash and smoke as a theme for mother. Brilliant.
And the title! Perfect.