My mother is dying; one thick cigarette-drag of black smoke at a time. And, I can’t do anything about it.
When I was eight, I would sneak into the pantry before school and write messages with a black ball-point pen on my mom’s plethora of Marlboro Ultra Lights 100’s. I’d write little notes up the stems about how much I loved her, with messages like, “please quit for me” and “someone