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The other reason

She cringed at the thought of another cigarette. Her body was punishing her for a night of indulgence. She felt the thick smoke rising slowly from every pore, her organs tired from all the work.

A memory. "I keep you working just like Cinderella!" her mother would apologize when she was too ill to get up.

"Just like Cinderella!" she told her organs, who groaned in response.

A classmate held out to her a half-empty pack of Marlboros in offering.

"No thanks," she responded. "I'm letting go of my mom."

--

He had been knocking at her heart for months now. She hadn't noticed before and smiled at the thought.

"Hey!" he knocked, "Let me in!" She felt sorry for not noticing, but forgave herself. She'd been so preoccupied with the hurt, how could she have noticed such a polite, gentle rapping? Furthermore, she thought she already had let him in.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to leave you out there." But these things take time. Listening to our heart when we've tried to tune it out for so long.

"I can wait," he answered.

"Are you sure you want to be here, anyway?" She looked around her heart, so empty and damaged, neglected, and couldn't come up with any reason why he would.

"I'm sure."

She took another look around and found some spots to tidy up. "Okay, just, hold on -- I'm letting go of my mom."

--

The smoke that constrained her lungs masked the other reason for the tightness in her chest. The nicotine rush masked the other reason for the unsteady beating of her heart. The slow inhale and exhale masked the need to step back, the carcinogens masked the desire to stop living, and the sweet scent of tobacco and cloves somehow managed to mask the unhappiness. The pain in her throat and mild congestion served only to remind herself that this could not be a long term solution.

A memory. The disturbing baby-face mask bolo tie her mother had made that she hadn't, in the seven years since her mother's death, managed to fit into a single outfit.

"I'm sick of masks!" she blurted out, disturbing the quiet study room.

"What?"

"Sorry... I'm letting go of my mom."

--

She started seeing a counselor. Then, she had to do some public speaking. A few months later, she quit smoking. A few months after that, she tried something she had never tried before. Then she fell in love. Then she went to school and started smoking again. And stopped. Then she began speaking more openly with her family. Then she started smoking, struck up a balance between studying and leisure, and paid more attention to her body. Then she quit smoking and prepared to spend two lonely but exciting months abroad.

"I'm beginning to realize she's not coming back," she voiced to no one in particular.
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