And maybe this is how it’s done, maybe my
memories are supposed to be tied to
the angry crackle of maple leaves cluttering the canyon walls
with sputters of redyelloworange, or the
sultry taste of cigarette smoke on
the stoop of my first apartment.

I could tie all my memories to cigarettes:
Marlboro Reds at the rope swing, camping
trips at Willow Flats, summers spent
breathing the crisp mountain air
between drags.

And then it was Marlboro Lights
the summer after junior year, the summer after
Ashley died, and we smoked at the lakes
and up the canyon, and behind the shed at
the eighth ward church; we smoked our
cigarettes and talked of death, and we were
so sophisticated in our grief.

I moved to Parliament Lights when I
moved away to college, a haze of
cigarette smoke enjoyed through that
recessed filter that made all the
difference, a haze of pungent smoke
clouding six months of
faceless boys and conversations over
coffee that lasted until three
in the morning.

I took those Parliaments with me
to New York, and I smoked one
with Liza Minnelli on the stoop
of the Upper East Side
restaurant where I worked, and wasn’t
I just living the New York dream? But
the acrid taste of the city smog cut into
the polluted taste of my cigarettes, so I
switched to menthols and to a city
with cleaner air, and I was back in diners
and bars, talking until my voice went
hoarse, then going out into the crisp fall nights
on the Chesapeake Bay, where the staccato
crunch of leaves beneath my boots
echoed beneath a mist of smoke.