Ode to my Yosi Boy

For people who hurt there is one thing that they reach for to ease the pain that they feel.

Some people reach for the phone and talk or text to their friends, telling them they are okay when they actually aren't, perhaps only saying so to assure not their friends but themselves.

Some people reach out more personally, like going home to curl up in daddy's arms or cry buckets on mommy's breasts.

Some tend to be less vegetative and rather let out the [party] animal in them--perhaps they would reach out for that bottle of Red Horse or that videoke microphone and belt out "I Will Survive" or "I Did it My Way."

Still, for some other people they reach for a variety of things--some opt for the steering wheel and the welcoming wide stretch of the orange-lighted highway at 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning, for some who believe in God, they reach for the rosary or the Bible, and let themselves be comforted by the Holy Word.

Some, on the other hand, instead of drowning their tears in beer or sending up prayers into the Heavens, or letting whoever is in Heaven take pity on their road-racing souls, like to simply fog out reality in a blanket of cigarette smoke. Smothering themselves in intoxicating tar and nicotine is a way for some people to breathe freely.

But what happens when that single thing that you always reach for when you want to breathe suddenly turns out to be a reminder of the allergen that had set off your asthma? What do you do when everytime you inhale the sweet, menthol taste of tobacco and everytime you let that taste take over you, you remember how somebody used to do the same thing to you? What do you do when instead of smoke rising above your head, you see his face and instead of the cigarette smell, you smell his hair?

What do you do?