Mud, a Storm, and a Cabin in Laos

Even when I light my cigarette, I think of you. I never used to smoke. At least, not like I do now. I remember us, in the complete dark, holding each other, walking barefoot in the mud because we said we wanted to feel like hippies. The rain was pouring down on us, sticking our clothes together and making our skin slippery, yet we held on. The only thing leading us back home was lightning illuminating the beaten path.

It was just one long straight road, after all. We only had to follow it, as we had over the past week, but today was different. It was just us.

I remember your goofy laugh and that childish smile. We weren’t doing anything out of this world. We were just walking through the rain, in the middle of a storm, trying to get home. It was almost a little scary, being there in the complete dark, trying to take us back in a place we had only been a few days but something about you made me feel brave and strong. At one point we even slipped and fell and our whole back and legs were covered to the brim with dirt and mud but we just laughed. I loved that. Anyone else would have taken it as a loss and felt defeated but you made it an adventure.

Finally we saw our little wooden cabin and walked up the rickety stairs to our little room with the hammocks on the balcony overlooking the Mekong River. We were both dirty, filthy, wet hippies walking barefoot in South East Asia and you never looked so beautiful. You grabbed the key from my hand and walked into the room and grabbed your pack of cigarettes and stormed back outside. You looked at me for a second with that devilish smile and kissed me. I put my hand out and grabbed a cigarette and lit yours for you. There we were. Lost on an island, sitting on our hammocks outside of a little wooden cabin smoking our cigarette.

Now you’re a few thousand miles away with him, and I’m alone. I never told you but it’s the only thing I can do that can make me feel close to you. I still think of you, even when I light my cigarette.