This morning, four thirty, when I woke up, after I went in the bathroom, after I looked at myself in the mirror for the last time, after I shut the bathroom light off, opened the door, the way the door sticks, and before I left the house, before I drove to Billie’s, when I walked up into the kitchen, there was the smell of coffee and mom was sitting in her chair at the kitchen table.

            It was dark but I could tell. She had her face on, eye brows swooped, her hair done up. Red cherries lipstick.

            I immediately went into a crouch position. I thought all hell was breaking loose.

            Mom just sat there though, looked at me. She was smoking one of dad’s Viceroys. 

            Want a cigarette? she said.

            My mouth fumbled over what the hell to say.  Didn’t say anything.

            Come on, she said, After all this time, you think I don’t know you nick your dad’s cigarettes?

            No, I said, Yes, Then:  I don’t know.

            Eloquent as ever.

            Mom pulls out my chrome chair with the plastic yellow seat and back rest.  The chair slides along the blue and white tile.

            She flicks the ash into the ash tray she stole from the 30 Club when she was young.

            Here, she says, Sit down.

            Mom reaches the cigarette across to me.

            Take a drag, she said, It’s the only cigarette I could find.

            I sit down. Take the cigarette.

            Our fingers touch.

            I do a perfect French inhale.

            How do you do that? she says, I never learned to do that.

            The morning light is silver light. Her rummage sale cotton blouse.

            When you blow the smoke out your mouth, I say, You suck the smoke up with your nose.

            I hand the cigarette back to mom.  Our fingers touch.

            Mom’s face is weird when she tries to French inhale.  Her face is like when you try to flare your nostrils and you don’t know how.

            That weird sound from down deep inside of us.

            Laughter.

            But soft.  We do not want to wake him.

            Who’d have thought I’d be laughing with my mother on the day I left forever.

            Mom crosses her legs.  Her jeans. Her Keds. 

            Mom hands the cigarette to me.

            Here! mom says, You take this damn thing.  I swear I’ll never get it.

            Our fingers touch.

            Then: I go there too, you know, mom says, To Russy’s grave. It’s so peaceful. One afternoon I fell asleep right there on the grass in the sun. I especially love it in the fall.

            Do you ever miss him? I say.

            He was born on January eighth and died on February twenty-second, mom says,   Seventy seven days and nights he screamed and then he died. 

            Yah, mom says, I miss him.

            Two silver rounds, moons, reflected light, her glasses. 

            So, mom says, You’re leaving me.

            Yes jumps right out my mouth.

            Can’t say that I blame you, she says.

            Are you going with her?

            Who? I say.

            Billie Cody, she says.

            No, I say, I’m going alone.

            My pounding heart.

            Good, mom says.

            Quiet for a while.  Just my mom’s breath, my breath. 

            I hand the cigarette back to her. Our fingers touch.

            I know you think this is just your mother talking, she said, But Billie’s not the girl for you.