A man inhales and exhales. The grey reek of smoke flows out of his mouth and I want to scream. Doesn't he know what that does to you? To your family? I want to scream in his face the names of both my grandmas, my grandpa I never met, and my uncle who died young. Don't they understand? It won't be cool to smoke when you don't get to see your grandchildren or nieces or nephews into high school. I blink away my thoughts and close my eyes.

I see your house. Cosy. Warm. Comfortable. I also hear the steady sound of your oxygen machine. My mom made you quit when I was born so you could see me, but it has affected you. You try to teach me to play a card game but I am too young to understand. I hear the floorboards groan upstairs and my uncle walks downstairs. I laugh with childhood innocence and hug you as I walk out of the door. Flash forward. You have been in the hospital and it looks grim. We start the painful move of you into a hospice, your last stop. I know you find comfort in staying in the place where your husband, my grandpa, died. You weren't there for 24 hours. Your peaceful hand rests on the pink puppy I gave you when you were in the hospital and I remove the puppy and hug it close, wishing it was you. The male nurse sings a beautiful melody and I wish you could hear.

I open my eyes. I try to cheer myself up with a bad joke. I start laughing and that's when I hear it. 

Geez!

In my head, just like my uncle would say about the bad jokes. A sad wave washes over me and I sigh.

After my grandma had passed, you lived with my family until you got back on your feet. You applied to 21 restaurants, one accepted you. We were so proud. Then you had problems and ended up in the hospital with bad walking pneumonia for years. Tubes coming out of you, I hand you the tiny koala I bought for you to make you smile. You love koalas. I just wish you hadn't smoked that pipe forever. You get out of the hospital with big oxygen tanks that you eventually finish off. You didn't tell us that after you moved into your new apartment you had to go back to the hospital. You didn't want help, you were too proud. Thanksgiving was the last time I saw you. You left your oxygen in the car so we wouldn't know. A few weeks later I got a sick feeling at school and passed it off as nothing. After school, my mom and I went to the grocery store to get dinner ingredients. My other uncle called. My mom, unhappily answered. My uncle was found dead in his apartment. A worker found him peacefully on his couch, he died from heart problems having to do with his previous medical problems. We were so proud. I never expected it. 54. 54. Thats how old you were. You were supposed to come to Christmas dinner. You were supposed to see me graduate. Be a great uncle to my future children. 54.

The tears freeze on my cheeks and I rub my hands together to warm them. Another memory comes.

My hands grow cold with the fall air but I still remember when your hands were warm and later when they were cold with death. I remember the hot tears falling down my face as I said the last words I would ever get to say to you. The shallow breathing from your blackened lungs. You quit years ago, but the cost was a tumor of cancer, overlooked for years. Fatal. I see how your face has become hollow and I can't wait for you to be at peace so I don't have to watch you giving up. You could have beat this, but I understand, I say. I kiss your forehead and back away. I let go of your hand and close the door. The sky is a dark blue that fits the mood. Dark. Sad. Beautiful. Even as we clean out your house, I remember the exact color. 

Smoky blue is the only way to describe it.