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.

It’s 2001. I’m 18 years old. The captain on my flight just announced we landed in Los Angeles. It’s been 12 years since I’ve seen my father. I was so nervous. What do I say? Do I hug him? Will he try to hug me? Distant memories flash through my mind...trying to make some connection, something we could talk about or share a laugh. Walking towards baggage claim, I see a tall, familiar looking man. Our eyes met, and an overwhelming love came over me. That’s my Dad! We smiled at each other and laughed, and the next thing I knew, I was in his arms, clutching him. Not ever wanting to let go. I glance at my hands around his neck, and notice a familiar, small bump on one of my fingers. I pulled back and showed my Dad my finger, he stared at it for a moment, and then smiled and said, “The bump is still there, but it healed well. Look how you’ve grown, baby girl.”