Smoke.
This transparent, little white whisp of a thing; see-through, innocent, a by-product. When you burn a little fire the smoke is white or maybe black but it curls up lazily in unpredictable patterns, never the same twice. It’s barely there, unassuming, hardly claiming existence. The white variety even seems to possess an innocent, pure, holy quality to it, just like snow except that it yearns for the clear sky instead of the riotous and dirty ground.
But this thing lies. It is deceptive. It wreaks complete, scorched-earth warfare in a very concrete way, all the while masquerading as delicate and weak. Do not be fooled.
This thing is a wrecking-ball, a cozy Sherman tank sitting in the fire pit in your backyard and you seek it out when it is cold. You will inhale it into your lungs and it will destroy them like a shell in a foxhole. It will cause cancer to break out in your body and nothing will ever be the same. Your family will suffer and you, too, will suffer more than you ever knew you could. You will spend all of your time in hospital rooms and at doctor’s appointments and you will learn what different drugs feel like and you will schedule your days around the taking of them. You will travel long distances and your children will get lots of “grandma time”. Nurses will wipe your ass and your wife will have to give you sponge baths and the saddest part is that this will begin to feel normal. You will think that your humiliation is complete until you discover a new, more complete form of it waiting just around the corner, and sooner than you think. It will be utterly and completely awful and soul-shatteringly beautiful all at the same time and you will both love it and hate it, this thing we harmlessly call smoke.
