I watched my father worry away his stress in packs of camel cigarettes.
I sat on porches with him at night to see what it felt like to be chosen over addiction.
I would carefully inspect the smoke that came from his lips from the porch steps.

The smoke intrigued me by what childhood imagination I had left.
On the nights he would stay away from home I would light a fire to see it again.
I wondered if the tiny...