My Father’s Cigar
It’s 1989, I’m 6 years old. My gaze fixed intently on the Nintendo game I’m playing on the T.V. Mario was my favorite, I loved jumping on those owls and squashing them. I was visiting my Dad for the weekend, I wasn’t sure why he was not living at home with us anymore, I only knew that he had his own apartment by the ocean, and that we got to stay with him on the weekends and play as much Mario games as we wanted. I felt particularly proud because I just found the secret area to jump to levels 4, 5, or 6. “Dad! Hey, look Dad!” I exclaimed. I looked over to where he was at in the kitchen, he was talking on the phone. I paused the game and went over to him. I could only think of wrapping my arms around him to get his attention, but as I did I suddenly felt something burn one of my fingers. “Ouch!” I yelled and instantly pulled my arms back and put my flaming hot finger in my mouth. “Monica! I had my cigar in my hand sweetie, I’m sorry are you ok?” My dad exclaimed, quickly hanging up the phone, he bent down to look at me. He gently pulled my finger out of my mouth and examined my red bulging finger. Tears welled up in my eyes, I tried to be brave and not let them escape. He kissed my finger gently, and whispered, “My baby girl, I know it hurts now. But it won’t always. It may leave a small bump, but it will heal.” I nodded and let my tears run down my face silently.
