Remembering Dad

He died in early 1992. One of the strong memories I have of him was how much he smoked cigarettes. He smoked 3 packs of Pall Mall straights per diem for many decades. It always amazed me at how much the human body can tolerate. From the time he awoke until he went to sleep at night, he usually had a cigarette going. Although right handed, he smoked with the left.

His wristwatch was awarded to him for the years of sevice he gave at the local metal foundary. He liked that watch and wore it daily. The same employer gave him a little copper ashtray. His left hand, that ashtray and that watch spent countless hours near each other engulfed in his cigarette smoke. I grew up smelling that smoke and I think I could identify it from other people's cigarette smoke. After he died, I placed the watch and ashtray in lockable plastic. I would periodically open that container and take a big whiff. It smelled so much like my dad. For years, I was able to engage with that. Now, the smell has all gone. I still have the items, the watch stopped running long ago and the copper ashtray is corroded. No longer can I open that box and smell my Dad. But I can resort to the internal electrons of my memory to recall him. I remember that smell. I can tickle that memory of that smell and his voice. Without doubt, he was the most quick-witted, joke making, hard laughing person I knew. If I could only talk to him just once more. I miss him still.