In Wooded Thought

In the evening light, I pulled my first cigarette out of the pack. The slender white tube filled with "organic" tobacco fit nimbly between my index and middle fingers. Fumbling with the lighter, I came close to burning my thumb as the wind pushed the flame back. At this point I felt like a fool and began to tremble. I felt the eyes of those around me. They knew that I was a novice and most likely looked down upon me for joining their guild. I continued anyway and began taking a few puffs. At first I didn't taste anything, then I felt the menthol and smoke surged through my mouth and down my bronchial tubes to my lungs. The dull fire which singed my pink lungs came as more of a warmth than a pain. Immediately my hands stopped fumbling and I was able to sit still again. My first cigarette immediately calmed my crippling anxiety which I had lived with since early childhood. Three years later, the first cigarette out of the pack still lulls me into serenity.



Now, I sit upon my bed of smoke, perched atop a limestone cliff and I watch the forest below as it glows like a solid emerald yet I know if I were to enter it once more, it would be much more fluid and teeming with life. I begin to ponder the life of a forest creature. Considering a deer, I wonder about how it relates to its family. Does the deer forget who its parents were once it has children of its own? I would believe it if I were told. What use are parents to a deer once it can kick and run and sniff out all of its food and trails? I raised this question to my own father once and he explained back to me that "Deer stay with their families for years and years. In the winter time they all go back to their deer den and huddle up for warmth. The daddy deer teach the little boys how to fight and the mommy deer teach the girls how to take care of their babies." Even at the six I could feel the ignorance of my parents for my own knowledge and their well formed outlook on the world. Instead of arguing, for one never argues with their elders in my household, I simply stopped asking questions. Once aware of my parents underwhelming faith in my intellectual stature, I decided that it was better to ask teachers or read books than to look toward the ambiguous intelligence and paternal care of my mother and father for answers.