Smoke in the Veranda
It probably started swirling around 4 p.m. Laima, Zita, Daina and I muting big coughs and giggles into our hands from Dad’s cigarettes. He was gone to the dairy and Zita had fished them out from the old wooden box with the snake emblem on it by his bed. Two or three missing? How will he know? She jeered, unfurling her hand to show us the loot. Dad smoked lots—and now that I come to think of it, I couldn't imagine his straight-pressed lips without the stub of a cigarette peeking through. Each of us were perfectly positioned indian-style on the plump, leather armchairs on the veranda, each with a rolled white paper between our teeth as Laima drew a match out of the little green box from the kitchen. Laima was our striker: starting campfires, burning ticks, lighting birthday candles, she could even illuminate a whole cake from a single match. You had to be delicate, quick and fearless, and boy did she take pride in it.
