Ms. Caraway's guilt

The tangy aftertaste of beer. Music. The distinct smell of second hand smoke. Yes, the smoke. That’s what I remember the most. A cloud of it, surrounding me, filling me. No matter how hard I try to get rid of the smoke, it never seems to leave. I breathed it in the night I met Leo’s father, and I just can’t seem to exhale. There is not a day that goes by when I don’t feel immense disdain for my son. There is not a second that goes by that I am not thankful for him.

            “Mom,” Leo whispered. I couldn’t pull myself away from the 100-piece jigsaw puzzle I was working on. It was a replica of Frida Kahlo’s “Self portrait with thorn necklace and hummingbird” that seemed unsolvable at the moment.

            “Leo, I’m busy. Can this wait?” I could feel the smoke growing hot inside of me. Leo had just spent an entire summer with his father. A man I neither loved, nor hated. Honestly, the man was a mystery. I had spent years replaying his songs, over and over again, waiting for a spark that never came. His voice was completely foreign. The muddled chords were completely indistinguishable. I couldn’t meet Leo’s eyes because he now had more of a connection with his father than I ever had.

            Leo reached out and plucked the puzzle piece from my hand. I grasped the air, attempting to snatch it way from him. Without my puzzles, I was helpless. Without my puzzles, I would be forced to face the one puzzle that actually mattered, my son.  “Mom, it’s ok.” There was something about the way he gave a faint smile that made me exhale. The smoke leaving my lungs empty.

            “I’m sorry about you father, Leo.  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I sat down then, out of breath and completely exhausted. 18 years of smoke will do that to you. Finally, I was able to breathe in new air. “But, there’s only so many times a person can say ‘I’m sorry.’” I shook my head, slowly, giving the air time to settle.  

            Leo laughed. There was no derision in his laugh though. “I know mom. I know.” I looked up at him as he placed the last piece of the puzzle into the open slot. He winked at me, then, ridding the house of whatever smoke was left. “I know,” he whispered. With that, he gathered his things and left to unpack two suitcases of rotting clothes. I swear to god, right then a cloud of smoke drifted from my mouth, out of the chimney, and into the silent night air. Drifting away. Far away. To another mother facing the tangy aftertaste of beer, music, and the distinct smell of second hand smoke.