Smoke-Stained Threshold
Lingering smoke fills your nostrils. A memoir by Kayla Jessop
My mother lives in the hazy moments between when I first awake and when I open my eyes. I see her sitting at the kitchen table of my old childhood home with a lit cigarette between her pink-polished, acrylic-coated nails. She doesn’t have her dentures in, her lips slack against the empty space in her mouth. I can hear the ragged breath in her lungs as she pulls the cigarette between her thin, slightly pink lips. The smoke lingers in the air, surrounding her face, and disappears into her long, wavy blonde hair. I can smell her signature Paris Hilton perfume fight against the nicotine. She hasn’t spoken yet, letting me soak in her presence like bees on pollen.
She looks at me with her soft green eyes, the longing to stay soaks the room in a thick haze. She taps her cigarette on the edge of her ashtray, stray ashes dusting the tabletop. Her voice comes out in velvety waves as she asks me if I’m ready for the day. Not yet, I tell her. I don’t want to leave you yet. Because here, her chest rises and falls, making her presence a false reality and not a memory. Sometimes she says more, other times we sit in total silence, though we always part the same way: she places her hand on mine and says I love you, and I open my eyes before I can repeat her words. I am alone in my bedroom, the smell of nicotine quickly fading. I clutch my hand, still feeling her cold touch linger on my palm.
Kayla Jessop is an MFA candidate at Lindenwood University. Her nonfiction has been published in Variant Literature, Welter, Press Pause Press, Chapter House Journal, Newfound, Coffin Bell Journal, and more. She does her best writing while sitting in coffee shops and daydreaming about possibilities. In her free time, when she’s not teaching, she enjoys cross-stitching and watching New Girl.
I can't relate. My mother lives in that same space. Such a beautiful, poignant piece. Lovely work.