The Old Man and the Cigarette
A cold crisp wind crackles up the center of the main street on a cloudless Sunday morning. The soft blue sky hangs over the small town cover in white.
Sidewalks pile high with pushed over snow the size of glaciers on the curb, with transparent sheets of ice slathered like butter.
The icicles hang from the sign of the retro-styled movie theater with the neon lights glazed over with ice.
Next to it is a local coffeehouse. Wooden chairs and tables next to the window, empty at this early hour.
A weathered old man sits on the stoop, smoking a half-lit cigarette. His breath smokes from the nicotine and the cold. His skin is chapped and his cheeks are pink from the bitter wind. His boots are covered in frost and frozen mud, with the shoelaces fayed at the ends and the soles worned beyond repair. His jacket is a size too small for his broad shoulders, but the look of content on his face shows he is happy with the amount of warmth he is getting. His body sags as if worn down, but it is difficult to tell if it is from the years or the cold. His long, dark hair reaches just below his shoulders, topped off with a forest green knit cap. Despite this weathered appearance, his dark eyes shine like the stars.
He stares motionless ahead until he looks at you.
You want to keep walking, although you really have no where to be. You feet want to keep moving.
But when you meet his gaze, there is something about his eyes that compels you to stop and stay.
Not only are they mesmerizing, but they speak.
“I have seen things and I have stories to tell,” they say. “Ask and you will hear. Ask and you will understand.”
You have stood, frozen in the same place for too long to ignore. Not only would it be rude, but you know your soul would not rest until it hears his stories.
So, you decide to sit down. He makes room for you on his stoop.
The cold from the concrete seeps through your jeans and sends goosebumps trailing over your skin. Maybe you offer him another cigarette if you smoke. Maybe you share the granola bar in your coat pocket.
Whatever you do, you never take your eyes off of him.
Pushing past your nerves, you lean in and ask the man to begin his story. His dark eyes light up at this question. He considers this question for a minute, puffing out a ring of smoke.
He leans into you.
He opens his mouth. Your heart stops.
And he begins.
