I sat sleepily across the table from her in front of a bowl of Rice Krispies. I dug my spoon deep into the floating snap, crackle, and pop and took a bite of my cold breakfast. The familiar voices of Good Morning America chattered from the small color television behind me.
She pulled a Salem Light 100 from her soft pack and fired it up. She shifted in her chair and grabbed the glass ashtray. She inhaled. Her lips formed the word, "blah" silently as she exhaled the choking smoke.
I ate on half asleep until the cigarette smoke hung like a lilting fog in the air of the mid-century ranch-style dining room/kitchen. "Get dressed and brush your teeth. You don't want to be late for the carpool," she directed.
I sank my feet into the vomit-colored shag carpet and disappeared down the hall to do as she'd said. I heard her light another. Six years later she would have to quit smoking due to adult-onset asthma. I can see her sitting there in her housecoat like it was yesterday nearly 35 years later in the rear view mirror of my mid-life crisis.
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