Ashes to Ashes

It's almost disconcerting, the way a certain waft of cigarette smell can make me smile. I loathe the smell and if it's too strong or too stale it's revolting to me. I never smoked habitually, though many people close to me did. In particular, my grandmother.

On those rare occasions when I encounter a faint hint of old cigarette smoke, I can't help but remember her. Her raspy voice, that occasional smile, the all-around French-ness...it's in that split second moment that I realize just how much I miss her presence in my life. As the days pass and the 13th year marker of her departure gets closer, the reminders of her are much more frequent.

She was a smoker for many years, quitting roughly four years (though I'm foggy on this, it may have been less) before she was hospitalized with pneumonia, was diagnosed with and shortly after succumbed to lung cancer. Nearly all of memories of her include a long, thin, white stick between her fingers, lips or hanging off the side of an ashtray accompanied by that smoky, toxic cloud. I mean no disrespect, nor is my intention to paint an unflattering picture of my time with my grandmother. I loved her and loved spending time with her. Growing up in the haze of cigarettes, before anyone really understood the detriment they posed to health, it was just part of life. At least for many of us whose parents, grandparents, relatives and friends puffed pipes and lit cigarettes.

Most of the time I recoil, immediately stop breathing and undoubtedly wear a look of disgust when I encounter the telltale smoke or odor of tobacco. I loathe it. Immensely. I am therefore confused as to how on earth I ever find myself nostalgic for my grandmother when just the right amount of cigarette scent crosses my path. That unknown, yet magical combination of tobacco, burnt paper and stale smoke sends me on an in-depth trip through recollections of years gone by. Sitting at the kitchen table, in every place she lived, listening to her tell me stories of her life, of my mother and aunts and uncle when they were young, of how much she loathed her first husband, and of growing up with her sister, my great-aunt.

I suppose that I don't need to really understand how the very same thing that revolts me, can remind me of someone I loved and miss dearly. Any memory of my grandmother is a welcomed one, and anything that brings it about I am oddly grateful for. I'd sit through her chain smoking just to be able to talk to her again. Yes...I absolutely would.