Day Thirty-Six

There was always something fun, something almost joyous in smoking in the snow. I use to love standing outside, feeling the soft flakes kiss and melt upon my cheek; watching the specks of snow saturate the body of my cig; listening to the sizzling cigarette as its fire is conquered and consumed by pliable mounds of snow. They seems to almost taste crisper and juicier, like an undercooked steak.

Yet, I always overlooked the inherent ugliness and dirtiness of this act. My ash looking like pepper on grits: out of place; like walking into my house and stomping the dirt off my shoes on my living room rug. And the remnant of my cigarettes now invariably remind me of the black snow along the edge of a plowed street. With every ash and every butt tossed, I helped to destroy the purity blanket of snow which I would venture outside to enjoy. This morning, I may finally enjoy the snow without destroying it for those behind me; the only remnant left is my anonymous footprint and the inquisitive mind which wonders the fate of its walker.