quit

Hugh was rolling the coffee cup in his hands, as he sat by the fire pit, wrapped in a blanket, looking at the field rolling up the hill.

The sun was very lazily getting up, so there weren’t much to see, just silhouettes of the barn and the tractor on the horizon.

He wanted a cigarette. He couldn’t have one, because he told himself he’s quit. That was several months back, and he was feeling way better than years prior.

He sipped more coffee. He wanted a smoke, but it was no craving. Rather, an old memory, weak and whiny. It bugged him for years that he would ever have a morning coffee without a cigarette. How could he disrupt that tradition? It felt like the whole day was based on that tandem, for years. Until one morning he coughed, and coughed, and couldn’t stop for two minutes. When he stopped, he made coffee and drank it, to get rid of the rigid taste of bile in his mouth, but he lit no cigarette. Not for the whole day. So lighting one next day made no sense.

He was lucky. He told himself so and the village doctor told him so too. He read of million people try so hard to quit, and the desire to have one so often would beat the reasoning to abstain.

Jeremy was no help. You’d think the best friend would understand. He was nice just to the point he didn’t offer him a cigarette, but he still smoked around Hugh, in the field or at the bar. And he yapped, as always. As he always will, probably.

“A smoke and a beer before supper, how do you say ‘no’ to that?” Jeremy would say, holding a bottle by the neck, cigarette in his mouth. Hugh never understood how he did that, talk with a smoke in his mouth. The bloody thing always fell out when he tried.

“Works just fine with a toothpick. Much harmless, as well,” he’d respond with a grin, but Jeremy wouldn’t give in. Hugh hated that, but Jeremy wasn’t ready. His money and lungs must have not suffered much. Hugh told himself that as long as the lungs worked fine, they will be running the farm well, and then… Gods only know. Enjoy what you have while it lasts.

A month ago he found an empty cigarette pack on the road. It must have been thrown out of a car coming from some far town. For the longest he could remember he smoked cigarettes Jeremy brought from the nearest reserve. There were no warnings of any kind on those. The pack he found on the road had pictures and writings on the top. It had a man with a hole in his throat, breathing through a tube. Hugh felt bile coming up, just for a second maybe, but he felt it for sure. He threw the pack in the trash and walked straight to the barrel full of water and washed his hands for a minute or two. Later that day Jeremy and him were having supper and Hugh mentioned it to him. His friend laughed. Hugh didn’t.

The sun was slowly rising, but he couldn’t see that, because he looked straight at it, and couldn’t notice the difference. Each morning he’d make a coffee, he remembered that cough months ago. The memory would last at least until he’d pour himself another cup. He watched the sun, loving the fact he didn’t have to have a tube in his throat to breathe and to keep living. He didn’t hold the whole world by the horns, but in his own world, small that it was, he was content and the cough almost didn’t bother him. There probably will be all kinds of old age nasty surprises, falls and strains, and maybe even memory loss that doc once talked about. And there may be heart problems, because cowboys eat steak and enjoy an occasional beer. Yet still, he chuckled as he thought of that, no one profited from him poisoning himself, because he did none of that. And that was a good thought to get going with another day.

I sat down to write this three days ago and after completing four or five lines recalled it was my anniversary in a day. thank you Gods, and thank you people. it was and is a great time tobacco-free nine years. and thanks to me, too.

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image was copied from http://www.designyourway.net/blog/inspiration/remarcable-anti-smoking-advertising-campaigns-53-examples/ great image, great message. thank you, too.