The odor of smoke fills my nose as I walk into the house. My grandmother is on the porch smoking her cigarettes, sitting on her walker. The ashes sit next to her in the ashtray. A ring is engraved on the wood where the tray was, burned in from the years of ashes being poured in. Soon she will be at the TV, watching the baseball game, or playing cards.

Grandma taught me everything about baseball and card games. It was always an honor to beat her at Kings in the Corner, her favorite game. Once while we were playing I had gotten distracted. “It’s your turn,” she tells me. Under her breath, she adds “you dumb s**t.” When I call her out, she becomes embarrassed, face red, brushing it off. She didn’t mean for anyone to hear it. Everyone laughed and laughed, and whenever I tell the story everyone laughs and laughs. I think about this a lot and smile. Grandma always could make me smile.  

After my grandfather died I think she kept smoking to hold on to him. It was all she had left of their memories. It was killing them both but ironically it kept her living after he passed. And that killed me. It broke my heart. The fact that we keep the things that hurt us the most, closest to us.

Now her ashes lay on my mantle, staring, watching, protecting. A constant reminder of the habit that drove her to death. In an odd way, I miss the bitter but faint smell of cigarettes around her. I miss the ashes in the ashtray. I would take cigarette ashes over these any day.