I remember us sitting on the hillside, our backs leaning on the old warped fence that blocked off the hills and trees. It was the fall season, leaves of red and orange and yellow and brown strewn across the grass, the slope down a complex painting. It was cold and humid, we could see our breath in the air.

I remember seeing, instead of your breath, a long cloud of smoke. I didn’t know that you had picked up smoking. We were only 10 years old. The way you put that cigarette to your lips and breathed in with such expertise, you had been doing so for some time now.

I remember smelling that acrid stench of burnt tobacco, and I coughed. You didn’t. I listened to you tell me to never smoke, it would lead me to an early grave. Back then I didn’t understand why you would do such a thing to yourself, why you would hurt yourself with every little puff. I didn’t know how your life at home was. I didn’t know the frustration you felt in being ignored and left alone.

I remember us looking out and watching the leaves and the birds.