#43 If

by Annie Liss

A letter arrives each year repeating this single message, “Grandma, please quit smoking.” Each year my reply is silent, why listen? I grew up on a tobacco farm; this whole Surgeon’s General Warning label is malarkey! Besides, what does a first grader know?

The girl grows, but persists. She becomes a teenager too soon, and still the annual letters come. Reflecting on my life, I have to write my will, what to leave behind. All my possessions reek of smoke.

In my kitchen smoking, I put down the cigarette. I don’t pick it back up again that day or the next. Months go by, then a year, then two. Marlboro no longer represses the wonderful odors of cooking, life, and love. This is much easier than I ever thought possible. I am one of those blessed people who can give up an addiction with mere determination.

Visitors comment that my home is now refreshing. I am ecstatic and know my doctor will be just as pleased, since he echoes my grandchild at each appointment. There is no smile on his face. Instead of a lollipop, I walk out with a sand timer. Instead of a clean bill of health, I received a death sentence.

Another letter arrives, “Grandma, I’m pregnant.”

Why didn’t I listen in the beginning? Would the diagnosis be different if I listened to her sooner? If I had never started, would I one day hold my great-grandson? Thinking over a life half-lived, this time I will reply.