In Dreams

(Originally published - Static Movement July 2008)


I drift off into sleep a lot, a circumstance that accompanies a man of my advanced years. It could be in bed, the recliner in the den, the rocking chair in the garden, or on the park bench after feeding the ducks at the pond. The dreams come when I close my eyes. I am usually smoking in them, and they are pleasant, though not for that reason. Cigarettes have been such a prominent part of my life that it is hard to think of a time when I have not had a stick of tobacco between my fingers.

When my dreams happen upon the start of my affair with nicotine, I see myself as a carefree and happy fifteen year old. We had played a stellar baseball game at the local field. My best friend then was Jimmy Ciglutti, and Jimmy and I walked home afterwards, congratulating each other and miming the highlights of the game. I had three homers, my crowning sports achievement to date. My grand slam in the bottom of the eighth was the farthest hit ball at Washington Fields Park until Mikey Rosenthal hit a humdinger over the fence into Mr. Cleary's yard two years later. At Jimmy's house later that day, he produced a cigarette that he had rifled out of his mother's purse the night before. We shared it, taking a few puffs each, coughing something terrible. It was new and exhilarating and I suppose there laid the attraction.

Sometimes I dream of my first kiss with my high school sweetheart, Maryanne Lewis. We were both nervous, but I think I was more so because I wanted it to be perfect. It happened on the front steps of her house, clumsy at first, magnificent in the finish. I remember walking home, light of step and mind, taking deep drags on the cigarette. I was up to almost half a pack a day by then.

My brain cycles through my life during slumber, offering up glimpses of the past to an old man who longs for them in his waking hours. They are always specific to an event, and I invariably smoked in them, whether it was before, during, or after. It could be getting an A on an essay from an admired English professor, winning the bike raffle at the county fair, or getting the promotion that I had worked so hard for.

On particularly lonesome days, I dream of the night Maryanne and I made love. We had parted ways after high school, certain that the distance apart in our respective colleges would be too much for our budding relationship to endure. But the desire and passion for each other overtook us one summer while we were both home on break between semesters. Afterwards, I remember watching her sleep, wondering how a ring would look on her as the moonlight highlighted the contours of her lithe body. Then I sat up in bed and had a cigarette, the amber end emitting a steady and slender tendril of smoke.

Sometimes the dream is far less pleasant. It was the day I smoked my last cigarette: January 7th, 1972. We were at the doctor's office for a follow-up because Maryanne had been ill for weeks with no explanation. The doctor asked us to sit down and with the hesitation that often comes before giving bad news, he told us it was lung cancer. The words struck me like a freight train, but Maryanne, the angel that she was, listened patiently, her face not betraying any fear. I tried to follow suit, but I became physically ill and excused myself, claiming that I needed to get some air. Outside the clinic, the wind bit into my face. I nervously lit a cigarette and let it limply hang between my lips. My eyes clouded and I took a long look at the cigarette, jaws clenched. There was so much anger and disdain within me, at the cigarette, and ultimately...at myself. I threw it down on the ground and stamped it out in disgust. Maryanne died on June 17th of that year, never having touched a stick of the poison herself.

Nowadays, at the ripe old age of eighty-six, I am generally still able-bodied. When my old, arthritic knees cooperate, I take walks in the park. When my eyes aren't too tired, I read a good book or watch the occasional television show. Sometimes I simply sit in my room, surrounded by the pictures of a wife cruelly taken away too early. Thanks to Maryanne I also have beautiful children and grandchildren to remember her by. I anticipate and cherish their visits, although I wish they would come by more often.

The faint aroma of tobacco still lingers in my mind, but the hunger for it has long gone. Now I only smoke in my dreams.