Note this was a second-year assignment written in 2013 that needed to include certain aspects.
After.
The sun filtered through the amber leaves on a peaceful November afternoon. The stones still wet from last night’s rainfall got stuck into my work boots. Anthony stood by the side of the river and thanked us for being there. Why did he choose the priesthood? Who knows, but it made him happy, and once he joined, my concern for him subsided. Not that I needed to be concerned. He was in his 40s, after all. But a mother always worries.
As he gave a sermon about the Holy Ghost, I caught a hauntingly familiar smell. It perfumed the air. I pulled my sleeves down instinctively to cover my dry, red, cracked hands. My eyes found the man fishing across the stream. He flicked his Bic lighter and lit up another cigarette. Even though he wasn’t close, I felt the heat emanating from it. You never forget the taste of a cigarette. My first drag was when I tried to impress Marc in high school, the one my brother told me to stay away from, and even though it felt like a million years ago, the moment was still so vivid. His greasy curled hair, how his lips hugged that warm Belmont, the way he cupped his left hand to the lighter in an effort for it not to fade. He had this firm yet gentle grip on the cigarette when he removes it from his mouth to exhale. The passion, the smoke, the heat; brief as it was, I missed it. I forget when I quit because I still long for a drag off that cool cigarette. The man smoking now could have perhaps passed for Marc. His small teenage feature posted onto an older, worn body.
My eyes wandered back to Anthony, his “born to die” tattoo visible on his back through his wet dress shirt. He talks with his hands making that star tattoo on his knuckles even more noticeable. I had the urge to comb his wiry hair that fell in front of his eyes. Those deep brown eyes sunk into his face, concaved.
Tamara and Tom were here. I hadn’t seen them since the funeral. Tamara pushed a blonde curl from her face and tucked it behind her ear. Funny how the one who hates you most looks the most like you. I pulled my sleeves down to cover my eczema again — a nervous childhood habit. I didn’t need to be here. They don’t need me. They haven’t for a long time. Simon was all in white and doused in river water with a towel…
