My Last Cigarette

Go ahead, Mark, you had one an hour ago. You might as well have another one now. You can’t possibly make your life any more miserable.

I leaned against the garage workbench in our house. The late morning sun brightened the open entrance to the garage. Songs of chirping sparrows filled the air. While peace and joy ran their course outside, in my mind I fought a losing battle. In my left hand, I held a lighter. In my right hand, I rolled back and forth between my fingers the object of my mental conflict—a cigarette, fresh from the package.

Two years before, I had searched the entire house and disposed of every pack of cigarettes I could find. I was convinced that my long addiction was finally conquered.

Meanwhile, summer turned to fall, then fall to winter. One chilly morning, I wore a jacket I had not