Smokin The Moment

"Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another."

​–Ernest Hemingway 

He was across the street from me when I slowed my pace to a stop. Something about the scene had caught hold of me. The man, perhaps in his early seventies, was sitting on a curb outside of a self-serve car wash lot, but not a car in sight. He sat under the warm glow of an orange lamp that buzzed with a frigid desperation, and I watched him through the steam of my breath against the cold.

He had on a dark winter peacoat, tuque, blue jeans, and big bulky black boots, yet no gloves. One hand held a cigarette just before his lips while the other arm hugged his knee. He sat slightly reclined as if in thought with no concern for time. I watched the smoke from his cigarette slowly spiral up, almost held in still by the cold winter air. What was he thinking of, or waiting for, I wondered.

I should have gone to speak with him, but I was frozen in my observation. The scene felt sad, but free with a poetic adornment about it. Not a give up, but rather a letting go. There was no observable tension in the scene despite the temperature.

His movements were as slow as the unhurried smoke. I stood mesmerized while imagining his tales of love, loss, and adventures over his years. That’s all I can do now. Just imagine. A moment lost is gone forever. Maybe that was his moment though, and my lesson.
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