The Cigarette Tree

That summer he went to stay with his grandmother. She smoked constantly. He hated the way she smelled and sounded when she talked, and he knew smoking would kill her, so one day he stole his grandmother’s carton of cigarettes she kept up on top of the refrigerator—he had to balance himself on a chair to do this—and then he took the carton out to the garden in the backyard. He dug a hole, threw the carton inside, filled the hole back in, and patted it down like nothing was out of place.

Later that night he dreamed about a cigarette tree growing in his grandmother’s garden. First a sapling with yellow butts extending from its branches, then as the tree grew the white papers materialized until each one became a full-fledged cigarette. He dreamed he saw them shiver in the wind. He dreamed some of the cigarettes fell from the tree and the wind took them and spread them across the town, across the state, across the country, across the world. Soon there were cigarette trees everywhere, sprouting cigarettes. Everyone in the world smelled like smoke and talked in that funny way, even him.

He woke in the middle of the night to a cold sweat. He slipped outside, the dewy grass shimmering in the moonlight, and dug back up the carton of cigarettes. He dusted off the dirt and took it inside, climbed back on the chair and replaced the carton on the top of the refrigerator like it hadn’t moved at all.

In the morning his grandmother made him pancakes and eggs. They ate out on the patio. He moved his food around with his fork, took very little bites.

What’s wrong? his grandmother asked. She pulled a cigarette out from her pack, placed it between her lips. Aren’t you hungry?

He didn’t answer and just watched her light the cigarette, then watched her inhale and magically produce smoke through her nose, like she was a dragon.

Robert Swartwood doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t make it a habit of planting trees either. Visit him at www.robertswartwood.com.