The woman next to me is smoking. She takes a long drag of her cigarette and exhales, and, against myself, I inhale deeply. She doesn’t know that I’m thinking of my grandmother, and all the summers with her growing up. She would smoke cigarette after cigarette and before long, the smell was like summer to me. When I was old enough I joined her for a while, but successfully kicked the habit, feeling like I lost a part of myself. When I see people smoking, I see him again.

Those summers are over. I don’t speak to my grandmother anymore and I haven’t had a cigarette in years. Yet, when I smell one, I become someone else - for a split instant - and am reminded of who I used to be.