Cigarettes and Then
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When I see the word 'cigarette' or smoke, I wonder why? ...I can't help but remember my father, who passed away many years ago, and it troubles me, Linda Yamamoto.
My father, a heavy smoker, used to smoke while he worked.
"Hey, [Name], light a cigarette for me."
I would take a cigarette and a lighter—or was it matches? My memory says matches—from his chest pocket, put the cigarette in his mouth, strike a match, take one puff, and then put it in his mouth.
On windy days, it was hard to get the cigarette lit, so I would turn my back to the wind, curl up, and light it for him.
This was before I started elementary school. One day, there was a fierce blizzard that lasted about a week, I think?? Back then, the snow fell like a demon. It was such a heavy snowfall and blizzard that the roof of our one-story house was buried. As a child, I loved blizzards and typhoons because the whole family would stay in one room, and I didn't have to help with work.
My father must not have been able to go buy cigarettes. When I noticed him, his face was pale, his eyes were glazed over, and he was drooling.
As a child, I was surprised by his appearance, and I must have looked at him with eyes that were clinging to something, as if the world were ending—though I didn't know the world existed back then.
I later learned that he was suffering from withdrawal symptoms because he hadn't been able to smoke for four or five days.
For the sake of such a father, my mother would carefully collect the long cigarette butts he had smoked and discarded into a bag.
I wondered why and asked my mother.
"Why are you picking those up?"
"They're your father's cigarettes for when the blizzard makes it impossible to go buy more."
"Hmm."
I have no memory of what happened after that, nor do I even remember if there was a blizzard.
Having grown up in the lap of my heavy-smoker father since I was a baby, I found the scent of cigarette smoke and machine oil to be... well (laughs), a good scent.
Later, when I was grown up and returning to Tokyo, my father saw me off at the airport. Just before boarding, I was stunned by what he handed me.
At that moment, I lost the words to say thank you; my eyes darted around in confusion, and I couldn't wholeheartedly appreciate my father's thoughtfulness.
I had become an adult and started smoking, but I was in the middle of quitting. I was down to just one cigarette at the very end of the day, and I was happy, thinking that if I could just overcome this, I would have succeeded in quitting.
Just before boarding, in my father's hand, which he held out casually, a carton of Seven Stars was shining.
Did I smile? Did I say thank you?
Once I settled into my seat, I thought, 'What should I do?! Should I keep them as a treasure without smoking them... after my father went to the trouble for me...' I remembered the hand held out by my quiet and clumsy father.
Unbelievably, this episode happened three times. Of all things, three times—that shouldn't happen, right? My failure to quit smoking is my father's fault.
And so, the word 'quitting' and the very thought of it disappeared from within me.
As my father grew older, he also liked alcohol, which weakened his liver, and I felt a sense of sadness seeing him struggle to reduce his smoking by switching to 1mg cigarettes.
On the grave of my father, who was a heavy smoker, electronic cigarettes, for which I always pay high taxes, have come to be placed.
I wonder if my father is sitting at his grave, lamenting, 'There's no smoke, I can't smoke with this!'
Dad, that carton was tough.
(laughs)