mok

In Dreams

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.

Matt Mok was born and raised in Queens, NY. Then he moved from
traffic-clogged NYC to tree-infested New Hampshire where someone was willing to give him money to do things for them. After about a year into a renewed reading habit, he decided to take a crack at writing. Since then, he has started many stories and finished few, but resolves to one day come up with a brilliant, awe-inspiring idea which he will turn into a completed novel. He currently resides in Hampton, NH, where trees and fresh air still scare him.