I just got back from hanging out with a bunch of friends at a pub downtown tonight. We sat outside under the mostly clear skies and faint stars hovering over the skyline. A few of my friends were passing around a cigarette. The sights and smells of the cigarette launched a flurry of memories flooding back from days gone by.

I was instantly taken back to when I was a wee lad, about 8 years old. My grandfather used to smoke 3 to 4 cigarettes a day (moderate by most standards), and he would always take one around 9pm on the back porch, then head off to bed. Even in the summer the sun was completely set by 9pm, so it was very dark on that porch. There would be a chair out there in which he would sit and enjoy his cigarette. I would go out there and climb into his lap, and we'd just sit there for however long the cigarette lasted. When it got down to the filter, he would throw the butt into a small flower pot that held a small amount of water.

The smell of the second-hand smoke and old, wet cigarette butts, and the gentle glow of the cigarette always remind me of him. Somehow, he's lived to be 101 years old, and he has the strength and health to keep going. No cancer, no emphysema, no smoker's cough. It's weird. And apparently 4 years ago (at age 97) he quit. Cold turkey. He's one of my most favourite people in the world.

¶ 11:40 PM