Cigarettes

I always hated your smoking.

My mother did it 

and I never liked the smell.

You had half a pack left

the night you drove to the gas station

to get more.

You must have thought you lost them

but you didn't.

I hid them

because I wanted you to quit.

If I would have known

about the drunk driver that night,

If i would've paid more mind

to the slick roads or those old tires,

I would've given them to you.

But I didn't.

And I'm sorry.

Things were getting better

between us.

The fights came less frequently.

Your gaze brought me tranquility

like it did so long ago.

I remember one night

I sat next to you on the porch

while you smoked.

We didn't speak,

but our eyes met,

and through your cigarette smoke

and my inability to find the right words

to tell you I that I care,

our hands reached for one another.

And our fingertips

had barely touched,

before God had cast a line down

and yanked you off the earth

and to the other side of the universe

like a celestial fisherman.

He left me alone 

with half a pack of cigarettes.

I wish I buried them with you.