Faro knew he would die soon but couldn’t stop smoking.
Momma used to tell him, “That smoke makes you sick. Every time you exhale, a part of you goes away, son.”
Still, Faro didn’t listen. He knew smoking didn’t cause cancer, yet smoke was the number one cause of death among their people, but he was hooked and there was no way back. In a few days, he would disappear from this world. How to avoid this? Easy, stop it. But, to him, it was equivalent to drown in a cup of coffee--the most dreaded way to die.
The seconds turned into minutes, and the minutes into hours, and so on.
And he shrunk.
And shrunk.
And shrunk.
And shrunk.
And shrunk.
And shrunk.
Until he was just a micro tobacco leaf.
One more hit and I’ll be done, he thought. I must stop!
But he couldn’t resist it. He exhaled deep and turned into nada, nothing.
-o-
Uncle Marlbo showed up to Faro’s funeral, his svelte figure towering the rest. He hugged--more like a chest bump--Faro’s Dad. “I’m sorry for your loss, brother.”
As stiff as he was, Dad bent the top of his body, trying to look at the ground. “I know—couldn’t do anything.” He sighed. “This. This is what smoking does. Faro was young and enthusiastic, but now we have nothing." He tried to bury his face in his hands but remembered he had no hands or arms for that matter. "Rest in peace.”
Faro's friends and family sobbed, tumbling into the ground and rolling.
All of them.
All the cigarette people.
